


The Red Lynx

by SaturnineCheetah



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Altmer (Elder Scrolls), Battle, Childhood Trauma, Cold Weather, Dagi Khajiit, Dagi-Raht Khajiit, E'kuun, Emotional, Episodic Chapters, Fantastic Racism, Fix-Fic, Fix-It, Gen, High Fantasy, Khajiit (Elder Scrolls), LGBTQ Themes, Magic, Near Death Experiences, Non-Graphic Violence, Nords (Elder Scrolls), POV Original Character, Queer Themes, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Discovery, Stormcloaks (Elder Scrolls), Survival, Thalmor (Elder Scrolls) - Freeform, Thalmor Being Assholes (Elder Scrolls), The Pale (Elder Scrolls), Theft, Thief, War, Wilderness Survival, Winterhold (Elder Scrolls), Young protagonist, rogue - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:27:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27806062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaturnineCheetah/pseuds/SaturnineCheetah
Summary: Follow the adventures of a young Khajiit boy fascinated with ancient technology as he tries to make his way through the hostile, cold, war-torn land of Skyrim.Living isn’t just surviving.A fix-fic, this story takes place in a more "realised" Skyrim, with attempts to make the world, story, and characters, closer to a "true-to-lore" ideal - with some minor liberties here and there.Written assuming the reader has a passing knowledge of major elements of The Elder Scrolls 5.
Kudos: 3





	1. Prologue - Ahziss Sallidadna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of Bethesda Softworks and Zenimax Studios, except for certain original characters, places, and concepts which belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this or any other archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of the readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
> 
> Content Warning: This work of fan fiction contains scenes involving ‘fantastic racism’ and violence against a fictional character under the age of 18.  
>  If you read beyond this disclaimer, it is your choice to do so, and it is implicit that you did so having full knowledge of the nature of the content within this document and made the choice to do so without any encouragement, and agree to take full responsibility and to hold nobody but yourself responsible for any consequences that arise. If you don't agree to these conditions, cease reading this document now.
> 
> Notes: This first chapter was originally written mostly as an exercise in using the first person perspective. I ended up liking it very much and continued writing, but dropped the first person perspective in favour of second in chapter two onward. I've since edited it into second, but I might've missed a few instances and some of the style might still be a little bit off. My intention of not naming the main character right away also runs head-long into swapping it to second as well, so it's a little awkward. This issue doesn't exist in later chapters, so please bear with me. x)
> 
> This is also my first post to AO3, so I hope the tags and formatting are alright.

The Red Lynx

By SaturnineCheetah

Chapter One

Prologue

_Ahziss Sallidadna_

Cold.

It was the first thing he felt before all other senses. The cold air on his wet nose. The numbness in hi paws. The all-enveloping chill that wrapped itself around him. An ever present, unceasing grip of frost. It dwelt in his very being. Under his fur, and even that was cold too. His body ached for warmth and he curled in on himself wanly.

As his senses slowly came to, he realised that it was rocky as well. He wasn't still. He was moving; being moved. It was rough. The chilled wood beneath him creaked and rattled as it rolled onward on an otherwise silent road. Passed his closed eyelids he sensed an invasive bright light. In opening them, he found himself looking at a massive expanse of white. His vision was blurry, but there were shapes around him beyond the wood he felt under his bare feet-paws and tail. He could hear distant voices as if from far away. In the chill, his pointed feline ears flicked. They were by far the coldest. The sounds were at first muffled as if he had a pillow over his head, but slowly they began to make sense as their volume rose. It was as if he was slowly being reactivated after a far too long sleep. He figured that's what had happened. Or something like it, anyway.

The cart bumped and he grasped the wooden bench to keep himself steady. It was then that he realised that his hand-paws were bound. His vision came to from that start, although he was still bleary eyed. The first thing he saw, through his blurred, white-drenched vision, was a metal shape. A crude sword stylized as a hammer adorned with an intricate knotwork design. It was in the pale hands of a bearded blonde man who was fumbling with the little pendant, turning it over. It was the man’s voice he had heard. The man was muttering softly, attention focused on the little hammer pendant he spun in his hands. His muttering slowly began to make a dim sense.

"You have suffered for me to win this throne, and I see how you hate jungle,” he whispered breathily. His warm breath rose from his mouth with every syllable, visible in the cold.

It was a prayer.

“Let me show you the power of Talos Stormcrown, born of the North, where my breath is long winter,” the Nord continued. A Talos worshipper.

“I breathe now, in royalty, and reshape this land which is mine. I do this for you, Red Legions, for I love you," he finished, his voice shaking, and then repeated the verse.

The man was in rags, his hands bound like the Khajiit's own paws were. It was a prisoner cart. The Nord was a prisoner. _He himself_ was a prisoner. Their captors were Thalmor.

It was then that the pain in the Khajiit head caught up to him. A dismal thump was pulsing on his left side, behind his bad eye. As his vision came to, he realised where they were. More to the point, he realised where he was not. The sky was cloudless, and the sun shone brightly down upon the snow, making the white sheet blanketing the ground practically glow with a shining bloom. The brightness of it all made his head hurt all the more.

He let out a soft groan, sitting himself up. Though it was fuzzy, memories were slowly coming back to him. The elves had followed him from somewhere and, even as he had tried to escape from there, they had managed to hunt him down. The distant chatter was occasionally interrupted by the sounds of dogs barking. A hunting party. It was slowly starting to make sense. As the events of the last several nights slowly came to him, he breathed in sharply, almost a gasp, but more of a pithy whine. His eyes lingered on that religious icon in the Nord’s hands, and his paws shot up to his chest to check for the necklace that he had never taken off. He found nothing but a crude rag on his body. They had done it right: disposed of his clothes and taken the pendant. The lockpicks and pick knife he had kept in his sleeves were long gone, and so was the only thing of value that he owned. It wasn’t a religious thing like the amulet, but it was special. It was all he had. He shut his eyes tightly as he felt the hot tears. Dunstad burning. The elves and their cruel flames and frightening thunder. The wild and furious hunting dogs and their angry barking and the fear that he’d be torn apart. It all unravelled as he awoke.

It was several moments later that the Khajiit felt like he could look up again. For all he knew, it could have been hours; he had become so lost in remembering. Although his head was pounding, he looked up with a sniff and gazed about the surroundings. He needed to look up; his neck was sore and the wind, despite the cold, seemed fresh on his face. There was nothing but snow and trees, but a distant smell of salt water lingered in the cold air. His good eye burned, not just from the cold wind, but from the burning tears within both of them. He dared not to look around at the other prisoners, though he felt their eyes upon him. Not only did he feel shame at being seen crying, he felt the fear and apprehension that he had always felt when being scrutinized by Nords. He looked down again to avoid eye contact. Maybe, had they not been prisoners likely en route for an execution, he would have been more assertive – look them right back. But he didn’t feel like picking a fight, and he didn’t feel like being sneered at for being a Khajiit. They were all going to die.

“What are you in for, cat?” came a deep voice from his right.

It took him a moment to even react. He turned hishead slightly towards the source of the voice. It was heavy with an accent that he recognised as coming from The Pale. He wanted to bite back, to retort. But the man’s tone wasn’t snide, it was calm. The Nord's deep voice and accent had made it difficult to tell at first.

It was another moment, then, that he felt like he could answer. It was plain that he was no Talos worshipper: this red-furred khajiit kitten the odd one out in a cart full of Nordic men and women, all of various shades of blonde and fair skinned. They didn’t need to know what – or _why_ _he_ stole what he did. Nor what happened. A portion of the truth seemed good enough.

“Stole… and broke a trinket they wanted,” he answered vaguely. He was a little ashamed when his voice cracked; the anxiety, the fear and the sadness all had gripped his throat.

“Ah, a thief,” the Nordic man said a little sanctimoniously.

The Khajiit boy frowned, looking away. He didn’t have it in me to reply, but…

“Ah,” the Nord sighed, “so long as you’re stealing from the Thalmor, eh?"

He only shrugged in response.

“These elven bastards,” chimed in another Nordic voice – this time a woman’s. “They have no shame! A thief, even a young thief doesn’t deserve to be put to the axe!”

“Child or no,” boomed another voice nearby, clearly panicked, “the cats are allies with the Thalmor! He can go first for all I care!”

The Nord prisoners began a clamour that soon turned to shouting – neither in the Khajiit boy's defence nor for him to be killed, but at the elven guard that followed our cart. Soon, the entourage around them came in, shouting for the Nords’ silence. The elves brandished those strange gilded swords of theirs, threatening the Talos worshippers into silence. He didn’t care. All he did was look down. It didn’t matter. They were dead.

An hour or more had passed and the Nords long since quieted. The cart and elven guard had left the vicinity of the snowy fields and now travelled a cliff side road overlooking the Sea of Ghosts. The Khajiit had indeed smelled the salty air earlier. As dire as his predicament was, he couldn’t help but to find the expanse of pale blue calming, even with its drifts of eerie ice sheets. The sky was still bright, though the sea below seemed greyish, almost silver. Even the sun shining upon it did little to liven up the spectral grey of the northern sea.

In the hour that had passed, he had regained himself fully. He remembered the Thalmor in Dawnstar, their prize in the little Dwarven cache buried so deep below, and how he had pilfered it from under their long pointed noses. The memory brought no joy in him, no pride. Just grief and pain. There was nothing to take away from the events of the last several days other than anxiety and remorse. He had since huddled against the wall, lucky as he was to have gotten a corner seat in the cart, and hid his face from his fellow prisoners. They had seen him crying already, but he had no interest in inviting sneers or sympathy. They cared little for him, nor he them. Their outrage was only for the Thalmor and their own injustices.

His head was still pounding. The pain came and went inconsistently, but it never ceased fully. The brightness of the afternoon and the bloom of the sun-drenched snow did little to abate the pulsing, throbbing ache behind his bad eye. Every noise, every creak of the cart, every mumble from a prisoner, the horses drawing the carriage and the barking and laughing from the hunting party, it all antagonised his tender head. Whenever he closed his eyes to the cold wind, the pain seemed to flash with each pulse: a strobeing, agonising thing.

The cold was ever present atop the cliff, and the chilly breeze from the Sea of Ghosts so far below only made it worse. Had the sun not been shining at all, the Khajiit boy was certain that the entire prison convoy would have frozen. But it wasn’t the coldest Skyrim could get; the cloudless sky meant that there was no snow; just a chilly, bitter wind. But that bitter wind was getting to him even with his thick red fur. His ears, always the first to get cold, were practically frozen. He had to cover them and warm them from time to time, to say nothing of his bare arms. At least he was capable of tucking his short tail within the ill-fitting, ragged trousers that were his garb for the ride.

Aside from the bitter cold and his throbbing head, there was the grief that kept recurring. Grief and shame. At this point, on the road to his death, he felt little beyond remorse; how he had utterly failed the only family he had ever known and how these elves had taken everything from him in one fell swoop. All because of his own doing. He felt completely defeated.

“Stop,” came a high, clear voice.

The Khajiit boy jumped; it was the first clearly spoken utterance in hours. A moment later the cart as well as the entourage of guards ceased. From ahead of the formation, he heard the voice again.

"We’ll have to make camp here before the sun sets.”

The high, even tones of the Altmer rang clear to him even over the wind. The High-Elf was well spoken, his words perfectly annunciated to his soldiers. After the order the Thalmor hunting party began to unpack their tents and set up a camp against the nearby cliff side, against the mountain and within a clearing of trees. Ideally, it would buffer most of the weather and effectively keep their position safe.

All the Khajiit boy did was shiver and wait. After around half an hour, three of the guards approached the cart and began moving the prisoners. He was the last one to be removed, having been against the back wall. But the three guards didn't return after taking the other prisoners to the tent. A different guard had come to collect him instead.

"Move it!" the tall Elven woman shouted.

He assumed her to be of a higher rank given that, unlike the other guards, she was wearing a full set of sturdy looking plates that were reinforced with a green coloured mineral of some kind. Like the other Thalmor armour, it was accented with eagle and feather-like adornments. The other guards were all clad in what he recognised as the Thalmor's standard, haughty looking plate-mail. He noticed that while they had either spears or arming swords with lightweight shields, she carried a heavier looking shield and war hammer on her back, both made of that odd green mineral.

Evidently impatient, or just plain cruel, she tore him roughly from the cart by the front of his ragged shirt before he could take a step down. He landed face first in the snow, on top of his hand-paws. It would have hurt more if the snow wasn’t so soft. As it was, the chill was worse.

“Get up, cat!” she snarled aggressively, grabbing the feline boy yet again by those rags and hauling him up.

She was a warrior and strong for it; though of course, he weighed little. She hauled him to his feet and grabbed onto his arm with her cold gauntlet. He was dragged towards a large tent where, inside, he could see the Talos worshippers being tied to a post buried deeply into the snow. Their wrists were bound like his, and were tied to metal rings that hung from the post.

“Wait,” came that high voice yet again.

It was the first time since the attack that the Khajiit had seen him. Tall – taller than the woman escorting him,he wore the heavy dark robes of the Thalmor wizards, accented with gold trim and eagle-themed accessories. His hood, adorned with that eagle insignia over the point, did little to hide his face. His longhair billowed in the sea-borne wind from under his hood, and it was so bright a shade of blonde that it was nearly as white as the snow. He held up a pair of metal cuffs and clamped the boy's paws together. He didn’t even remove the rope that already bound them.

“There,” he said, sneering at the Khajiit. “Take this vermin to the tent with the others and make sure he’s bound well. We already searched him before putting him on the cart, but don't underestimate him. This cat is sly,” he finished, giving the boy a cold, appraising sort of look.

The female Altmer left once he was fixed to the pole, though two soldiers had been stationed just outside the tent in their maroon cloaks. The Nords within had been whispering quietly to one another before he was brought in and had hushed as he was put to the pole. They resumed their mutterings once she left. Plans of escape, where they could go from here. The Khajiit's ears perked as they talked, though he doubted they would include him even if he had his usual tools. What caught his ear, however, was the distant high voice of the wizard. He strained his ears, willing himself to hear what the clear voice was saying…

“I don’t see why we don’t just kill him if you think he’s so dangerous,” the feline boy could make out. It sounded feminine and deep. Whoever was talking wasn’t too far away. Their tent had to be within a few meters of the prisoners'.

“Keep this between the two of us,” came that higher voice. Both were distant, however; quiet. Had he not had excellent hearing, had he not been a Khajiit, the boy definitely wouldn’t have heard them.

“...that cat activated the lexicon within the cache,” the wizard was saying. “The sneak thief had planned to double cross us the moment he arrived, I knew as much. He wasn’t going to live after the lockpicking had been done, child or no, but-”

“No, Bersei,” the Nord man directly next to him said suddenly, louder than the whispering cautious men and women in the tent. It made him jump slightly.

“Tch...” he strained again, trying to hear the wizard. Whatever else the Nord had to say didn’t matter. He tuned him out best he could.

“- because he tried taking it,” the wizard seemed to be saying.

The Khajiit wasn’t certain exactly what had happened back in the buried cache, but the elves seemed keen on it.

“Just touching it did that?”

“It seemed that it was lying in wait to be activated. I do not know if that little pest did it intentionally or not, the fact is-”

“We’ll all die if we don’t wait!”

“We’ll die in the cold if it snows tonight!”

Two Nords around the pole were arguing. It was a surprise that the two guards outside the tent didn’t notice. Perhaps the howling wind combined with their helmets was drowning out the hushed whispers.

“So we _need_ him alive then?” he heard from the first voice.

“Whatever that little flea-bitten bastard thought he was doing when he tried taking the lexicon doesn’t matter. If we can’t extract the knowledge from him somehow it’ll be my head _and_ his.”

 _Knowledge_? The pain behind his eye gave a poignant throb. Now _that_ was beginning to make more sense…

“What about you?” Came another voice from right next to him, right in his left ear. He jumped and looked up; it was such a sudden, clear voice. A Nord, one with vibrantly red hair, the only non-blonde in the entire group, was looking at me.

“Wh-what?” he asked. His voice was raspy from thirst and disuse; it came out like a thistle brush. He wasn’t sure if he was about to be insulted or yelled at for merely being in the way or what.

“Are. You. In?” he asked, this time slowly, as if the Khajiit was incapable of understanding Tamrielic. Hell, he didn’t even know Ta’agra.

“In- in what?”

The Nord grunted his irritation and looked the feline boy hard in the face, the green eyes onto his own ill-matched ones. He noticed them flick back and forth as people often did, realising one was bad. With a jerk of his head, the Nordic man gestured to the mouth of the tent. It clicked immediately. The Khajiit had known what they were whispering about, but including him was never something he expected. Whatever the Thalmor had planned for him, it seemed worse than what the Nords would face. He would rather take his chances than be tortured and have some kind of knowledge yanked from his brain. He needed to get away. If that meant escaping with a bunch of Talos worshipping Skyrim-belongs-to-the-Nords types… so be it. He nodded.

The Khajiit boy felt as if his shoulder joints were ready to break. He had been hanging by his wrists for the entire night, barely capable of willing himself awake. He had barely slept from the discomfort, let alone the throbbing pulse in his head. The darkness of the tent, of the night, did little to abate the pain in his skull, but he thought it felt better than it had the previous day, if marginally.

He found myself surprised at the relief he felt once Thalmor a guard began unbinding the prisoners from the pole. The thing was rather secure – either by magic or just good digging – it proved impossible for even the Nord prisoners to break it from the ground. Not that it had stopped them trying almost all night. Having their hands bound up above them didn’t help matters, of course, but they did try.

Once his paws were freed from the pole he slowly lowered his arms. His shoulders hurt and ached with an intense tightness, too wan to bend. Of course, that was their plan. Let the prisoners dangle by their shoulders so they could barely move them to fight back. He could only genially move his arms, but all the same he was wrenched from the tent along with the Nords by his arm. And, like when he was loaded into the tent, he was the last to be removed. By the same plate-clad woman, no less.

“Come on, get moving cat!”

Stumbling from having been standing for so many hours, he nearly tripped as the heavily armoured Thalmor roughly yanked him outside. What greeted him was not the cart, but a cage on wheels. It seemed that a second party of Thalmor had caught up with the hunting party during the night and had delivered it. Their number was almost doubled from the previous day, or at least it seemed so. The cage, this crude square-barred mobile prison, looked to be made of metal, which would only make things even more uncomfortable. As he made to climb onto the first step leading into the cage, he immediately recoiled and stepped away. It was an unconscious instinctual thing. The metal was deathly cold, frozen, like ice, and the bare paw-pads touching it was very nearly unbearable. The Nords had it lucky – that racially in-borne resistance to the cold was a real thing, not just some old wives’ tale.

“Get on the cart!” the Altmer woman demanded, pushing him forcefully into the cage.

The Khajiit managed to not trip as he stumbled through, silently cursing the ice-cold metal upon his paw-pads. It was far too much to bear and he immediately started shifting back and forth on his foot-paws, from left to right, as the other prisoners were loaded in. He wished he had boots, or some kind of socks. All the Thalmor left him with were the rags of what seemed to be some sort of sack. The lingering smell of potatoes about the group of prisoners, including himself, attested to the theory. The Nords on the cart were too preoccupied with their mutterings to notice, but a group of nearby Altmer started snorting and smirking.

“Little flea bag,” one of the men muttered to his companion as they passed by. They both snorted at the sight of me lifting his foot-paws one after the other, almost marching in place.

He snarled and, glaring the pair of them, and stamped both feet down firmly, ignoring their immediate pleas for release from the cold. It didn’t dissuade the Elves from their mockery. In fact, his snarling glare only made them chortle. They continued sniggering derisively as they went about their preparations. In spite of the burning shame in the Khajiit's ears, his paws were already feeling numb. Small as the cage was, and as large as the Nord prisoners were, he was smaller, so he slid himself down onto the cage floor to sit, nestled in the corner, and folded his legs. Cramped as it was, he fit fine. It was better to have whatever clothed or furred part of him against the metal than bare paw-pads.

“Eat up, maggots,” came a voice from the other side of the cage. A Thalmor slid a single loaf of old, hard bread into the cage. “You too, cat,” he added, putting as much contempt into the word ‘ _cat_ ’ that he could. He came around to the Khajiit boy's side and slipping a tiny piece of bread onto the metal floor. The boy grabbed it right away and bit into it in spite of the hardness and smell. It tasted awful, like sawdust; that’s how it smelled too. _And_ it was as hard as wood. They were given a single, half-empty waterskin too. There was barely a sip left by the time it reached the feline boy in the back.

Over an hour later the hunting party – now a full fledge prisoner convoy – was on its way down the cliff-side road once again. The Khajiit boy had grown used to the cold of the cage – that and it had warmed from his sitting on it. What didn’t grow warmer was the wind and the chilly air. Although the Sea of Ghosts was quite a ways away from the cliff itself, its cold, unforgiving breeze slinked up the mountainside, unbidden by the snowy coastal lands below, and constantly wrapping the prison cart in its frigid grasp. It would cease for a few moments only to come yet again, renewed in its frigidity. The very brief spells between each gust were all that seemed to keep him from succumbing to the chill. It gave the long, arduous ride a kind of routine that made it less dull, somehow.

The Thalmor convoy had indeed grown much larger now that the extra patrol joined the hunting party. While before they numbered in around ten, they were now fifteen strong. Though it was difficult to tell one golden-skinned Altmer from another, he had managed to count based on the different armour. The elves from the patrol wore a fully plated set of that haughty bronze-coloured eagle armour, and were armed with longswords. The heavily robed wizards stood out, and the patrolmen flanked the wizards like a guard. The high-voiced Thalmor wizard was still the one in charge, it seemed. From time to time, the Khajiit caught glimpses of him leading the prisoner convoy, giving orders to the guard and the hunting party. Whenever they addressed him, they used the word ‘inquisitor’ like it was his title.

He wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if the wizard was more active than he had been the previous day. He noticed that the Altmer convoy had seemed to stiffen. There was something different about how they moved: shoulders hunched, hands ready on their sheathed weapons. They were on alert. His fellow prisoners too were more awake – more aware than they had been yesterday. Perhaps they sensed the change in the air that even he had. The cliffside path had become quieter, and only the wind made much noise. The Nords were giving it away, he was certain. But maybe the Thalmor already knew this area was contested territory in the Pale. It was more than likely that they did.

Even though all of them sensed it coming, the surprise attack didn’t fail to do its job. As the prisoner convoy encroached upon a bend on the cliff path, surrounded on both sides by trees, an arrow managed to slip through the sea gale and strike one of the Thalmor in the head. There was a simple ‘ _tink-shunk_ ’ sound and she fell over dead, an arrow piercing through the side of her helmet. He had never seen a battle before his capture, but he had witnessed fights. Brawls between lowlifes, guards beating up muggers. They weren’t one and the same. Even though he knew the Thalmor didn’t want _him_ dead, the feline boy was still frightened. As he heard the Altmer shout and the guards raise their shields, he knew a terrible fear that he was without cover, sitting in the cage. It overwhelmed him. The Nords didn’t really care for him, but so long as he was in the cage with their brethren, the Khajiit boy wasn’t a target. But that didn’t matter. It was just like that night had been. Before he was hunted down, before a blow to the head. Seeing arrows from nowhere pierce someone nearby, knowing a stray shot could come for him next, that a dog could be charging him from behind. It all flooded into him, leaving him frightened beyond reasonable thought. The battle was confusing even from the central vantage point in the cage. The Nords had waited to ambush from multiple sides, and while the Thalmor were prepared for it, they were still out manoeuvred and out-numbered. He couldn’t watch, however. Even if he had wanted to keep track of who was winning. He just stayed huddled in the cage, covering his head in his arms as he heard the melee. The shouts from both sides – the encouraging roars of the imprisoned Talos worshippers for their saviours. Louder than all of it was the sounds of magic, and that high voiced Altmer – the inquisitor – shouting orders, taunting and blasting people away with that thunderous lightning. The clash of metal and the thunderous magic had transformed the quiet path along the snowy cliff into a cacophony of sound and furore.

It was some time before he heard someone near the cage door, and he was so completely in his own world that he didn't register it. The feelings were difficult to process - the panic that came over him, how his heart felt like it was going to explode within his chest. How he felt like, while the battle roared around him, all he could see was Dunstad burning again. He even felt the heat of that magical fire again, the smell… _that smell_ _._ Burning flesh. The screams of Nord warriors repelled by magic. Metal smashing against metal. The rending, fleshy tears of a blade going through skin. He hadn’t even noticed the man at the door, nor the metallic rattling as the cage’s lock was undone. It wasn’t until a swift kick – no – it was one of the prisoners' feet hitting him as they ran out of the cart – that he realised what had happened. Ignoring the feline boy completely except to stumble over him, the imprisoned Nords exploded out of the cage and one by one had the bindings on their wrists cut.

“By Ysmir’s beard! You’re Frozen-Heart!” He heard someone say. The words meant nothing, and he barely registered them.

“GET MOVING!” a powerful deep voice roared over the battle in reply.

Looking around, he saw the source of that voice:a powerfully built Nord man, bald save for a long blonde goatee. He was clad in a gambeson andhauberk and wore a blue sash over them, indicating some sort of rank. The sash borea knotworked insignia that resembled a clawedanimal paw, though in his panicked confusion the feline boy didn't quite register it.

Once the last of the Nord prisoners were free, the man calledFrozen-Heart swept off to rejoin the battle, an axe and shield in hand. Even though the door was standing wide open and the Talos worshippers had either taken up arms to fight or were fleeing from the Thalmor, the Khajiit boy didn’t get up right away.It was the Nord's voice yelling at the prisoner to move that had awoken him from his stupor. And it wasn’t even direct at him. He slipped out of the cage and his paws landed in cold snow, his wrists still bound by both the metal links and rope. The snow underfoot-paw was nothing compared to the dense, ice-like cold of the metal, but it was far from refreshing. But he was free from the cage. That’s what mattered.

He looked around at the battle and froze. It wasn’t the cold that sent the chill through him, it was the combat. The dead elves and men. It felt like he was watching the scene in front of him from a distance. He didn’t register it. While he saw that huge Nord man, Frozen-Heart, tackle a Thalmor wizard with his shield, the act, the thing he was seeing, it didn’t have meaning. It was as if he were in a dream state – a reverie, watching from afar. It could have been a scene described in a story for how little it seemed to actually be happening before him. He didn’t know what to do - how to react to the tumult around him - or how to even act at all. The inclination to help the side that had assisted in freeing him was there, but so dulled it might as well not have been there at all. It was as if the world was in slow motion, and he gazed around at the fighting.

Frozen. It was just like what had happened at Dunstad. The arrows, the dogs, that burning smell. The thunderous magical lightning. The hopeless helplessness that had washed over him as he saw people shot down before me, blasted and burned away, had returned just as quickly as it had left. He felt a sickening pain in his stomach as his head throbbed. It pounded and pounded just like his heart. He was worried in that instance that it would burst. And that’s what it took to wake him up.

He was free.

His hand-paws were bound. Free from the cage, but the battle raged. The violence had completely overtaken the attention of both sides, and he remained behind it all, watching. If the Thalmor won, if those wizards managed to fight back the ambush, he would be a prisoner again. If the Nords were victorious, maybe they would give him a ride… but to where?

Even with their numbers, the Nords were having trouble. It was clear that the Thalmor had better weapons, better arms and armours. Even though every Nord, especially those clad in blue, fought harder, it was apparent that the wizards were what changed the tide of this battle. Despite that Frozen-Heart had killed one, they had no magical defences of their own. There was little they could do to withstand the might of the remaining two wizards, both of whom were barraging the Nords with spells that sent them careening to the ground. The Inquisitor’s rumbling thunder sounded over even the Nords’ battle cries, and it was then that the Khajiit boy took his chance.

He ran. He didn’t know where, he didn’t know why, but he ran right then and there. Escape was his only option. That he would die in the cold wilderness, that he was bound and shoeless and on a mountain overlooking the Sea of Ghosts, none of it occurred to him in that single moment. He didn’t choose a direction – he just ran. He had to get away, to escape.

Over the sounds of the battle behind him, he heard one single utterance from that high-voiced Altmer. Unable to understand what the Elf had said, the Khajiit continued running. The adrenaline high had kicked in and he felt a burning in his being that could have melted the snow under his paws as he tore away from the fight.

But he hadn’t escaped. He hadn’t gotten away. Not yet. Just ahead of him, as he tore through the trees, a deep blue light sundered his vision, and a massive spark erupted before his eyes. A snowy pine tree had been struck with a bolt of lightning and was now burning. He didn’t even think to turn and look around, all he knew was to run, to get away. He ran and ran, difficult as it was in the ankle-deep snow. Every few moments came another rumbling crackle and he either saw or heard a tree get struck. The air, so thick with the smells of blood and burning flesh, was soon heavy with the scent of burning wood.

Though he had no fixed destination, the Khajiit boy knew that he was heading towards the ocean. Judging from the bend on the path where the battle was taking place, it meant that he was heading in any direction but south. Even through the smells of battle and magical carnage he could smell the salty breeze. It was only just there, for his keen nose alone; subtle beneath the scents of the furore behind him. The realisation dawned on him as another bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree with such force that, in the moments he had sprinted away, he heard the crackle not of electricity, but of the wood breaking and bending. There were two more rumbling blasts that barely missed him as he kept sprinting. The boy kept going. As hungry and thirsty as he was, as cold as the snow under his feet was. He didn't stop. Behind him he heard a busy rustling sound that momentarily covered the sounds of battle, followed by the soft thump that could only have been the pine tree falling over.

“You little bastard!” he heard that high voice from behind.

He turned mid-run to see the Altmer man, his hood down, stopped in his tracks by the tree he had inadvertently felled. It seemed that all the magic he was casting had tired him out. Incapable as the Khajiit was at even making the tiniest bit of heat even for a hot tea, he knew that magic could only be cast so long as the person wielding it had the mana for it. It was just like running: the wizard had been throwing magic around at the Talos worshippers before he chased after the boy. Just like when one overexerts oneself running without taking a break before running again, he had over exerted himself of his magical ability. And the Khajiit hadn’t started to slow. Not yet.

Maybe if he were in better spirits, he would have taken the opportunity to offer him a rude hand gesture, or a taunt. But aside from his hand-paws being tied, he was too terrified to even stop and consider it. He chanced one more glance back at the Altmer and saw that he had nearly climbed over the tree and was unstoppering a tiny little phial of blue liquid. Moments later there was another crackling rumble and a tree directly in front of him was struck. He heard the Altmer man roar in anger and frustration that he had missed. But the debris of tree bark flew about the Khajiit and he staggered into a branch, causing him to stumble and nearly lose his balance. He had been as close to sprinting as he possibly could in the ankle-deep snow, and in his stumbling he did a full, three-sixty degree turn on the spot before he regained a bit of momentum. He saw a spark of blue and white, and there was another crackling, rumbling roar in the air. As he finally managed to turn and started running at full speed again, he felt it. It was heat before anything else. All of his fur was, for a split second, standing on end as the air seemed to… to press around him. That heat shot through him in the next half of the second. Then, at last, he felt the power of the bolt strike him in his back. The magi-electric energy cascaded through him, and he heard his own pained shout as if from a distance. The wizard’s triumphant voice too came to him as if from several hundreds of metres away.

The power coursed through his body and he was stunned momentarily. he didn’t even realise that he had been lifted from the ground, that his foot-paw was burning and the lightning had left him before he hit the ground. It was such a powerful strike that he slid, even in the deep snow. The next thing he knew, he was falling. The furious roar, the anger of the high voiced Thalmor was getting even more distant. He saw the cliff, and he saw his own arm, and then he slammed into the ground. There wasn’t enough time to even realise where he was – that the Altmer had blasted him off the cliff and onto the mountain side - that he was tumbling, sliding, barrelling down towards the icy waters below. The lightning had done its job too well.

The last thing he remembered was the cold and how it enveloped him. It wasn’t even a memory. It was the last sensation he knew before his death.

…

The world was cold and he was adrift. The pain he should have been feeling was dulled by numbness. He had no strength. He barely had breath. Before him was an icy grey and some shadows before it. The shadows had words, but they were unknown to him. All he knew was numbness and dizziness, a spinning, blurry world before him, and that shadow above him.

When he awoke, he didn’t even remember the shadow at all.

…

  
  



	2. Two: Ahziss Zaigoh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awakening after a harrowing near-death experience, a young wayward Khajiit faces a kindness almost foreign to him and struggles with his own insular and distrustful nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of Bethesda Softworks and Zenimax Studios, except for certain original characters, places, and concepts which belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this or any other archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of the readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
> 
> Content Warning: This work of fan fiction contains scenes featuring mild ‘fantastic racism’ towards and depictions of alcohol use by a fictional character(s) under the age of 18.  
> If you read beyond this disclaimer, it is your choice to do so, and it is implicit that you did so having full knowledge of the nature of the content within this document and made the choice to do so without any encouragement, and agree to take full responsibility and to hold nobody but yourself responsible for any consequences that arise. If you don't agree to these conditions, cease reading this document now.

Chapter Two

_Ahziss Zaigoh_

Though the sun had yet to rise, the sky had already begun to lighten, turning from black to a deep, soporific blue. The stars above still twinkled, if dimly. Even in the darkest hours of early morning the Sea of Ghosts was hauntingly silver. What little light made its way onto the waters was filtered through snow clouds even on clearer mornings like this one. It gave the beach a forlorn, saturnine look.

It was long before sunrise when the boy and his uncle had uncle risen, fishing nets and bucket in tow, and headed for the dark-shingled beach near their home. It was cold tedious work, throwing the net and pulling it back in, but the coast was rich with salmon. And early morning, his uncle said, was always the best time for fishing.

Foresetti groaned as he worked to haul the net out from the water. He was by no means weak, but fighting a net full of panicking writhing fish wasn’t the easiest thing to pull out of the water. It wasn’t until five minutes had passed that his uncle stood up with a grunt and came to assist, grumbling all the while. It was a good haul, he had known, as together they pulled and pulled the net. With the older Nord’s help Foresetti managed to pull the net out from the waves and together they dragged the fish onto land.

“First catch looks good!” the Nord boy said. In the net lay a squirming, flopping mass of salmon. Foresetti looked to his uncle, grinning.

“Aye, told you it’d be best early, didn’t I?” Alsfgrund said.

“I got up,” Foresetti replied with a faint grin.

“Only after getting a mug of water in the face. I damn near pulled my back pulling that, you know,” he added sternly. That wiped the grin from Foresetti’s face. “I can’t keep fishing like this alone, boy. How long were you up last night reading that book from that elf?”

Deciding it was best not to answer, Foresetti cast his gaze down onto the writhing mass of fish. They stunk just like the salty sea breeze that billowed through the coast. Wrinkling his nose, he knelt down and grabbed the net’s rope and began tugging the catch more inland, towards the basket. His uncle had a point, though. The entire night, Foresetti had been preoccupied with a used spell tome he had acquired from an Altmer living in the Frozen Hearth Inn. Though well beyond him, the theory had fascinated Foresetti, and he had stayed up far too late reading the tome and trying to comprehend it, knowing full well that they had planned to go fishing in only a matter of hours. His heart sank slightly with guilt as he listened to Alsfgrund’s complaints.

“Winterhold barely makes it by on its own,” he was saying. “What with the farms frozen and the war preoccupying everyone’s minds and that College eating up more than the Jarl’s Longhouse. The best we can do is fish,” he continued as he started opening the basket. “If we can’t keep up, especially in this season, we’ll have to start begging out in the cold.”

“If you’d let me go down to Windhelm to learn at the School of Jhunal there, I might be able to make us some money,” Foresetti replied as he began loading the fish into the basket with his uncle.

“I can’t lose you, boy. I need you up here, with me,” Alsfgrund said gruffly.

Evidently in pain after the endeavour, the old man groaned and sat down with a grimace on his face. Hauling the fish and then packing them in the basket was just one more thing after the long walk down to the frigid beach. It was with care then, that Foresetti approached his uncle and placed his hand on his back, the way he had so many times before. Alsfgrund sighed contently as the dark-shingled beach, so dim in the sleepy early morning hours, was momentarily alight in faint golden warmth that flowed from Foresetti’s hand. It was a soothed, relieved sound that bade the irritableness away. For a time.

Beyond knowing the few simple spells he did, Foresetti didn't know just _how_ he could perform the magic he did. It came upon him like flexing a muscle, and the knowledge of how the spell functioned filled in the rest. He just had the capability and the ability to 'flex' the muscle while his uncle didn’t. And though he had never been allowed to visit the College, he was allowed to buy a used spell tome from time to time.

“Want me to relight the fire?” Foresetti asked once his uncle’s pain had been satisfactorily eased.

Alsfgrund’s fishing spot was old, and a shelter had been established years ago. The small wood fire they had made sat smoking next to it. Foresetti raised his hand and, mentally flexing, conjured the dormant flames of a spell with which to rekindle the fire.

“No,” his uncle replied. “I’m alright now. Light it again and the wood will turn to ashes. Best wait until we need a proper rest.”

“Or if it gets too cold,” Foresetti added.

“Aye,” Alsfgrund chuckled.

The pair of them began loading their basket with salmon. Their net was by no means the massive kind you see swaths of Nord fishermen brandish through the entire breadth of the Yorgrim River, but it was big enough to catch several pounds at a time should their attempts prove fruitful. And they did this morning. The basket had enough room for a few more hauls, and that was good. He only hoped they could lift it and take it back to town when it was full.

The sun still hadn’t managed to rise as both Alsfgrund and Foresetti pulled their fifth net of salmon out from the water. The sky was still dark, but it was beginning to look brighter, if marginally. The stars had disappeared and the chilly Sea of Ghosts seemed less silvery for it. The predawn light cast a dim shade about the beach that was equally haunting and relaxing.

Alsfgrund began to load what was to be their final haul into the basket as Foresetti stretched. He too had been exerting himself, if not more so than his uncle. The fish didn’t like being caught and the strain of pulling their bulk ashore was tiresome. While he wasn’t lithe, he was still smaller than most Nord boys his age. He’d have to haul the basket up the path back to the village too, of course. But he didn’t complain; they needed the money. And his uncle was too old to carry such a heavy load on his own. But how he wished they had a pony or mule.

It was then that Foresetti saw something that interrupted his musings. There was _something_ lying on the opposite side of the shoal they had been fishing on. How long it had been there he didn’t know, but his heart sunk and he felt a sudden shudder at the thought that it had been there the entire time, unseen in the soft pre-dawn light. Forgetting momentarily that he was supposed to be helping his uncle fill the basket with salmon, Foresetti walked towards the strange, small broken form.

“Fores? Where’re you going?” his uncle’s voice came from behind him.

He gave a start and turned to address his uncle, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “Th-there’s a body here, Alsf!”

“A body?!” his uncle cried and stood up, though not without a bit of effort. He ambled over to where the body lie at just in front of Foresetti and looked down at it.

It was lying face down in the dark pebbles, completely soaked. It was red, and wearing what looked like an old sack for clothing. What he at first mistook for dried blood turned out to be drenched dark red fur as he knelt down in front of it. It was a Khajiit, and a young one at that; it looked younger than he was. His uncle cursed as he looked upon the corpse. With its fur wet, it was apparent just how skinny and lithe the Khajiit was. It took both of them a moment to realise it, but there was an unusual burn on the cat’s back. A hole that went right through the sack and fur, which had been singed off, leaving a scorched, blackened patch of skin.

“Wonder where this cat came from…” his uncle mused, gently nudging he body with his boot to roll it over.

The cat’s eyes were closed, and its hands were bound in the front – not just with rope or cuffs, but with _both_. The two of them exchanged a glance at that.

“You think he was on a prison ship, or something?” Foresetti asked softly. He had never seen a Khajiit in person before, and had no idea how to discern their sexes, especially one so young, but something about the cat’s appearance made Foresetti think it was a boy in spite of the long hair. A certain hardness to the face, maybe.

“Don’t know any prison ships that’d be way up here. Then again, this cat could have drifted from somewhere.”

“Solitude?”

“Too far away,” his uncle replied, “and there’s land between our coast and Haafingar.”

They frowned together, pondering this strange corpse. It didn’t seem to frighten Alsfgrund as much as it did Foresetti – but then again, Foresetti had never seen a corpse, Khajiit or man, before. They gazed down at the pitiful thing, both unsure of what to do.

Foresetti, for his part, was staring harder. It wasn’t merely the body of some unknown thing. This was at one point a person. It wasn’t the same as his adventure tales, where heroes and adventurers go through caves, crypts, and dungeons full of bones and miscellaneous bodies. This was a real corpse. This Khajiit was, until recently, a person. These facts slowly sunk in upon him as he stared, knelt down before it as he was, and took in the ragged feline’s features. A scar began over his left eye and carried on down across the top of his muzzle, older looking than the fresher wound on his back.

“You know,” Foresetti mumbled after a moment, “I bet that scar on his back was from a spell.”

“Aye. It looked like fire was shot into him from behind. Or a bolt. Those elves liked their lightning if they could manage it,” the old Nord said with a sigh. “Looks like he might’ve been executed. Wonder what for…”

He didn’t know why he did it, or what he was thinking when he did, but Foresetti reached a hand out to feel the dead Khajiit’s fur, not with a finger, but with the barest amount of knuckle he could. He had at least an inkling that they were going to do something with the body - move it or at least burn it here before they left. But when he touched the arm of the Khajiit boy, he felt a stirring; not of muscle and bone; something more intangible and different within the body. It was the same sensation he felt when he had used the healing spell on his uncle. It was akin to warmth, though he felt no change in the air around him. It was beneath the cold. He started and stood up so quickly that his uncle started too.

“What?!”

“Alsf… I think he’s _alive_!”

“What?!” his uncle repeated, utterly incredulous. “How?!”

“It’s like,” Foresetti knelt down again and pressed a single fingertip to the Khajiit boy’s shoulder, “When I use that soothing magic on your back. I can feel… something like life in you. I feel it with him. I don’t think he’s dead!”

*

It was such an unusually quiet night. The regular drunken rabble in the Stumbling Sabrecat down below was just as loud as it always ways. It had been like that nearly every night since he had arrived. Really, he wasn’t even sure just how long he had been here for, but almost every night the Khajiit had taken the opportunity to get drunk with the rest of them. It had been so different here – no one cared about how young he was, nor that he was a Khajiit. Their leader was a Dunmer, even, named Adras. Their second in command an Orc. It was so much nicer than being in the cities, where, if you weren’t a Nord, you were a second class citizen at best and sneered at and disbarred from entry at worst. The people here at Dunstad had been welcoming and accepting. His story, his lack of wealth, his race, none of it mattered here. It was the first time he had ever felt welcomed in his entire life. A place where he wasn’t just another mouth to feed, but a friend and equal. A place where he could be free; could truly live without fear. In Dunstad, you earned your worth. And it just so happened that the lot here appreciated the kitten’s skills. Helped hone them, even.

This night was by far the quietest for him, though. It wasn’t something he had done before, but maybe he would make a habit out of it. The air wasn’t all that cold at the top of the fort’s tower. There were even little bales of hay all the way up here, perfect for sitting and relaxing. Alone for the first time in a long while, the Khajiit boy took the time to appreciate his solitude with nothing but the wind and stars for company. They had allowed him to leave the nightly rowdy get-together, a freedom he had never taken advantage of before. No one nagged him about going up here, and no one insisted he stay within eyesight. Everyone was their own man at Dunstad, he had been told by Adras when he came to the little town.

As much as he enjoyed drinking with the others at the Sabrecat, he felt that a little bit of time alone would do him good. Besides, he didn’t really feel like getting hammered tonight. Something was preoccupying his mind, and he wanted a clear train of thought for it. Lying in the hay, the little lockbox sat on his stomach. He was always careful not to shake it or rattle it, but whenever he did move it, he heard its contents shifting around inside. His fingers carefully traced over the coppery container’s carved designs. He was fairly certain that they represented the constellations, though he knew little about them. Each side of the box had a different design, raised figures reminiscent of glyphs and symbols he had seen before with other Dwarven artefacts.

His thumb traced over a circle – a spot he knew to be the first piece of the puzzle, and, for what felt like the hundredth time that night, pressed down upon it. Holding the button down, he rotated the box, taking his time as not to rattle the contents, and, on the opposite side of the cube, he found the little raised lines that he knew could be slide out of place. The writing on the box, indented on the raised lines, was indecipherable to him, written in Dwemeris. He was certain it had some kind of clue to it, that the box had a riddle written on it, probably to help unlock it if only he could translate it. With the first line slid out of place, the button clicked and held. That was his cue to turn the box around yet again, and find the three small circles arranged in a triangular pattern…

“Still haven’t gotten it, huh?” an amused voice came from behind him.

The kitten jumped, startled, and nearly lost hold of the cube.

“Fuck! Snow!” he hissed, standing up. Three of his fingertips were still delicately placed on the box’s circles. They were slightly indented with space for adult fingertips.

“You definitely won’t get it if you drop it,” the white Argonian said genially. “I didn’t think you had any mead tonight!”

He had been around Snow enough to read him pretty well. Even though Argonians showed emotion so much differently than the mammalian races, the Khajiit boy was capable of discerning Snow’s mood. Certain spines on his head changed, and there was faint colouration in the otherwise white scales. He even did a semi-smile sometimes, though, without lips, it almost always looked threatening. It was like seeing a dog wag its tail and knowing it was pleased, though he would never make such a comparison out loud. The Argonian’s tone cued him in, anyway. Luckily, neither of them spoke their races' dialects.

“I won’t drop it!” he hissed at Snow, glaring at him. “What’d you come up here for? To scare me?”

“No,” Snow replied evenly, ignoring his younger friend’s irritation, “I wanted to see how you were coming along. Also, we had a bottle of Firebrand…” he added in a tone of fake casualness, showing the kitten the bottle he had been carrying.

His expression, so irritated that he closely resembled the face of the fierce mounted sabrecat head in the tavern below, quickly changed. It was almost comical. His ears perked up immediately and his expression softened from a snarl to an embarrassed, sheepish stare.

“Oh,” he said awkwardly, staring at the bottle Snow held up.

“Yeah,” the Argonian said, walking up to where the Khajiit kitten stood and uncorking the bottle.

The smell immediately hit his nose, and the kitten boy gazed at the bottle, taking it in. Mead and ale were all well and good, but it was Firebrand wine that he always liked. While the mead was always sweet and the ale a little bitter, the Firebrand really warmed him up. Stronger than regular spiced wines, it seared in the most pleasant of ways when it went down, and, true to its name, lit a fire in his stomach. Perfect for cold nights. It was rare to get a bottle, and the Khajiit boy gazed guiltily at it.

“I didn’t want to get drunk tonight,” he said, holding up the cube, his fingers still holding their places on the puzzle box’s mechanisms.

“Suit yourself,” Snow said with the sort of expression the Khajiit had come to associating with a smile, and started drinking from the bottle.

Together they moved to sit down on the hay pile. The wind was pleasantly quiet, and the two moons cast a subtle, silvery light down upon them. The darkness was far from an issue for the kitten; the soft cloudless moonlight was enough for him to see the box in detail. They sat in silence for a few moments, the only sounds coming from the echoey swish of the wine in the bottle whenever Snow took a swig, and the occasional mechanical clicks and ticks as the Khajiit boy worked on the puzzle box.

“Yurzon wanted you tomorrow, by the way,” Snow mumbled after a swig. It was almost an afterthought.

“Why? More knife stuff?” the Khajiit asked, utterly focused on the cube in his lap. Click. Click. Click. He had rotated the three circles, and they had somehow moved into three corners, and now he was pressing each of them in different orders.

“Probably,” the Argonian replied with a little shrug.

It was small talk, and Snow gave it up there. He had the feeling that Snow didn’t just want to break the silence between them. Even focused as he was on the box, the kitten picked up that there was something on his mind. But then he managed the correct combination, and, still holding down on the three circles, he began the other side – a slide puzzle with Dwemer numerals, of all things. Problem was he didn’t know the glyphs.

“Fuck…” the cat muttered after several minutes. This is where he kept getting stuck.

Snow looked down at the puzzle, watching the kitten slide the glyphs around. After a few moments, he offered the bottle.

“I can’t take my paw off the locks in the back,” he said distractedly. But the bottle was shaken slightly, and the swish and swirl of the Firebrand wine right next to his face made his ears perk. In the same way that he was capable of reading Snow’s expression, Snow seemed just as good at reading his. He was tipping the bottle towards the kitten’s mouth, and, almost absently, the boy lifted his mouth up towards it, and Snow gently poured a sip passed his lips. The boy looked back down and continued fiddling with the sliding glyphs before looking up with a grin. The two of them exchanged a grin, equally amused at what had just transpired. It had been almost entirely nonverbal.

“Sorry,” the Khajiit kitten said, feeling a little sheepish. Even the little sip had caused warmth to kindle his belly. He offered Snow a more sheepish smile and found the Argonian looking at him. “Wh-what?” he asked apprehensively.

“I just miss you when you go out for so long with Adras and the others. Or when I have to go out without you,” Snow finally said. It was stated so boldly and with such clarity that the kitten could only stare at him in bewilderment.

“Miss me?”

“Yeah,” Snow said, taking another sip from the firebrand, then offering the bottle to the kitten.

He took his paw from the glyph puzzle this time and took a swig from it himself. He took almost a full shot, and coughed after putting it down.

“Shit…” he muttered, his voice hoarse from the coughing.

It probably was too big a swig; Firebrand was so strong. Had he not been around Snow, he would have been embarrassed at coughing, but he felt less… guarded around the Argonian. His belly, already a little alit from the first sip, was positively on fire. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling at all. Quite the opposite, he felt the warmth spread from his stomach and up through him and into his extremities – even in his ears. Before he could suppress it, he felt a pleasant shiver wrack his body.

“What do you mean, ‘you miss me’?”

Snow took the bottle back and held it in his lap for a moment, looking down at the straw littered stone floor of the tower. “I mean that I **miss** you,” the Argonian repeated.

The emphasis, however, wasn’t missed. There was something unsaid in his tone.

“I like…” he started slowly, and the Khajiit looked up, his attention fully on Snow at those two words. “…being _around_ you,” Snow finished, looking away from the kitten.

Maybe it took the strong, warm alcohol to give him the courage to say that. The Khajiit boy, for his part, felt the warmth in his ears only increase, and it wasn’t just the firebrand. The people at Dunstad – they were friendly. He never felt unwelcomed, but this was something entirely different. New. He felt a sort of tingling nervousness in his stomach that had little to do with the drink. Almost absently, as if for something to do, he fiddled with the glyph puzzle. He had never heard that before.

Nerves had grasped his insides, his voice. The tingling in his stomach was joined with a tightness that he felt all over. Not only could he not think of a reply, he couldn’t even think. He couldn’t say anything. Everything was restricted as if a heavy block had fallen in the way of his thoughts. Everything other than his mouth, which had formed a perfectly natural little grin. He had the inkling to say something - anything in reply, but he stopped.

The greyish moonlight was slowly giving away to a different colour entirely. Looking up he saw, in the sky, a vibrant, shimmering sheet of colour, slowly forming as if from nothing. Reds, yellows, and oranges, bright and wondrous. Wavering like a curtain,it bathed the top of the tower in an ambient light, and his dark red fur almost blended in with it, making his own body difficult to see even for him. He looked over to Snow, whose white scales had too been drenched in the warm light of the aurora. The Argonian was looking up at the aurora just as he was, but, in that moment, they looked at one another.

Click. _Rattle._ _Snap!_

“…I got it open!”

*

The world was heavy. No, he was heavy. There were weights pulling him down, keeping him in place. He couldn’t move or lift his head, arms, anything. Everything was dark, solidly so. But the blackness slowly started to resemble mist, and he was beginning to see through it. Like a haze, it parted, and his eyes opened. Everything around him was orange; his vision was so blurry. It felt, dimly, like he had gone through this before. But it was orange this time instead of white. The room he was in was warm. A fire was lit nearby. He was lying on his front. A whitish blur was above over him, gazing down at him.

“Snow..?” he asked. His voice was scratchy and came out like sand, making him cough.

“No, you’re inside,” a voice came from above. “Here, drink. Take it slow,” it was saying, offering something.

The Khajiit rolled over to sit up on one of his arms, accidentally pulling on his long hair. Before he could take what was offered, however, he realised just how _achy_ he was feeling. Almost every part of his body was hurting, and he moaned as he moved to take whatever was handed to him. It felt like a mug, warmer to the touch than the air around him felt. The liquid was hot – not unbearably so, and pleasant. It was some kind of tea. That much he could tell. As he drank it, the Khajiit boy blinked blearily up at the white figure that he had taken for a white-scaled Argonian. It turned out, however, to be the face of a young Nord.

“You alright?” the Nord asked softly, watching the kitten as he drank.

“Feel like every part of me’s gotten the shit beat out of it,” the feline boy managed to reply.

The boy offered a wan sort of smile. “I can get you something for pain, hold on.”

“Wait,” the Khajiit said before the boy got up, “what’s…”

He looked about the room and the question died in his throat. It looked similar to almost every other Nordic house he had ever ‘visited’ in the Pale. Wooden walls with frosted windows bordering a thatched hay roof. And not much for décor. It was warm though, bathed in the orange glow of the nearby fire. He took everything in – not that there was much in the room – from the table in the corner where he could smell some kind of fishy smelling stew, to the shelf with little phials and bottles of this and that. A set of stairs that led downwards were on the other side of the room opposite the bed, barred off by a wooden railing. As familiar as the layout and structure was, he didn’t recognise anything. He definitely wasn’t in Dunstad Grove.

The question may have faltered as he looked around, but the Nord boy seemed to catch on regardless.

“You’ve been out for a while,” he said softly, watching the kitten as he gazed around the house. “My uncle and I found you on the beach. You’re in Winterhold Village right now,” he added.

“Winterhold..?”

“Yeah. In Northeastern Skyrim,” he said patiently.

“What day is it?”

“It’s Turdas, the uhh… the sixteenth,” the Nord replied, glancing up at small calendar book over the mantle. “Of Morning Star,” he added, seeing the slightly confused look on the Khajiit’s face.

The kitten’s brain felt foggy. That didn’t really mean much to him. The only thing that came to him was a distant sense of dread.

“I thought I was dead,” he said abruptly; stupidly. Everything was still slow, groggy. The last thing he recalled was a sensation of falling, of being rattled so much his brains must have been dislodged through his ears.

“Close,” the Nord boy said gently.

The kitten looked up at that, and tried to fully take in the Nord's appearance. His vision was returning, and blinking, he saw that the boy was fair skinned but with dark hair that went down behind him in a series of small plaits that he wore over his shoulder. It was an unusual hairstyle for a Nord boy, and perhaps he took too long trying to take it in, because the Nord tilted his head curiously. Maybe his mouth was hanging open and he looked like he had a question. Or stupid. He probably looked stupid.

“You were in the Sea of Ghosts,” the boy said, a little slowly. The Khajiit boy shut his mouth for good measure. “We thought you were dead, but, when we found you, you were just barely alive. Could hardly tell you were breathing. I think I managed to keep you…” he added, trailing off with a sort of jerk of his shoulders.

The feline boy understood. _Alive._ This boy had kept him from dying.

“You a healer?” he asked. The Nord boy seemed young, but then again, he didn’t look much older than the Khajiit was himself.

“Yeah, and I can make some basic medicines and potions too. We’re near the College so we can get more powerful things if I can’t make them,” he added.

“I didn’t freeze?” the Khajiit asked, confused.

“No. Not sure how that happened. We assumed you just hadn’t been in the water that long. Guess it was good timing,” he finished.

He had a wonder at that. Ignoring how his body protested, the Khajiit boy sat up with a pained grunt and scooted against the wall to drink the tea more easily. It had a sweet, but tart taste, like berries. Although he was already feeling warm from the fire and being under the heavy fur blankets, the tea warmed him even more. It was a bit like Firebrand wine, only without the burning or the alcohol. The smell was rather pleasant too, with a vaguely floral aroma beneath the berries.

"This made from snowberries?" the Khajiit boy asked with a pained grunt.

“Yeah- uh, sorry. Hold on, I’ll get you some medicine,” the boy said quickly.

The memory of the last few days came to him as the Nord boy walked across the room. It wasn’t like when he had been beaten unconscious and woke in the Thalmor’s prison cart. This time it all flooded back to him. He just had to think about it. Of where he was. The inquisitor had managed to hit him and he must have been blown off the cliff. There was no other explanation for how he wound up on the coast of Winterhold when he had been travelling west in The Pale. But how could he have possibly survived that? Every part of his body ached, and that rattled sensation he remembered must have meant that he tumbled down the mountain rather than been launched. Aside from the general unease from the pain, there were _several_ places on him that throbbed in particular. Bruises unseen through his fur, no doubt.

He realised, looking down at his bare arms, that the ropes and metal chains had been removed along with the filthy sack. It suddenly occurred to him that he had been undressed. Though he was shirtless, the Khajiit boy was wearing a pair of trousers that he certainly hadn’t been wearing when he was a captive. It might have been because he was so groggy, but he just hadn’t noticed until that moment. But considering that the Nord boy had healed him, he figured it honestly wasn't pertinent. There were bandages wrapped around his midriff, just under his ribs, and he felt a warm, gooey something against his back, beneath the fur. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, surprisingly. If anything, it was soothing. That had to have been where he had been hit…

“Here,” the Nord boy said softly, jerking the Khajiit from his thoughts. He hadn’t noticed the Nord climbing up the stairs on the other side of the room.

He was holding out a small glass phial full of a reddish liquid. It was glowing faintly, but the kitten recognised it right away by the scent before anything else: a faint smell of flowers and wheat; almost like an odd mixture of floral bread. The taste wasn't bad either. It was definitely a potion; a medicinal draught that he had had before. A type that could both be reinvigorating and relieve pain at the same time.

“Can I ask your name?” the Nord asked as the Khajiit downed the medicine. The phial was barely a shot.

“What?” he started before the question registered. “Oh. It’s E’kuun’dyao,” the feline boy answered without thinking.

Ignoring the other boy’s mild befuddlement, it struck him that sharing his name might not be a good idea. But then again, this boy had taken him in and rescued him. That and he was fairly certain that the Thalmor didn’t know him by name.

“Eekoowhat?” he asked, grinning in an apologetic, embarrassed manner.

“Just E’kuun,” the Khajiit boy said with the best grin he could muster. It felt faint, taught.

“Eekoon?” the boy repeated, testing the sound of it and asking if he was pronouncing it right.

It was the sort of thing E’kuun would have normally found rude or irritating from almost anyone else, but the Nord boy was different. Most people in general, men and mer, disregarded his name if they even asked, preferring to just call him ‘cat.’ But this boy wasn’t making fun of his name or belittling him for his species; he was trying to get the pronunciation right. E’kuun gave the other boy a little nod.

“I’m Foresetti,” he said, grinning.

It was a much more genuine thing than E’kuun could manage, and it was very nearly infectious. Not quite enough, though. He closed his eyes and let out a quiet sigh, feeling relief from the fast acting medicine. It wasn’t just the aches and pains that were feeling alleviated. In their absence, E’kuun registered, with surprise, that the headache that had been plaguing him for _days_ was gone. He hadn’t even woken up with it! A more genuine grin crossed the feline’s face as the realisation hit him. It was finally gone!

“Feeling better?” Foresetti asked, evidently happy at the effect his potion had on the kitten.

“Yeah, actually. What’s on my back?” The warm, oddly gooey substance beneath the bandage was strangely soothing, but E’kuun couldn’t help but to feel a little gross whenever he shifted slightly and felt it press against his skin and through his fur.

“It’s a poultice,” Foresetti explained, “mixed some of the same ingredients as that medicine you just drank with a bit of nirnroot and lavender for… well, we think you got hit by some kind of spell. There’s a big patch of fur that’s burned away and you’ve got a scar there.”

There was an unasked question in that statement. E’kuun took another drink of tea to avoid answering and handed the tiny potion phial back to the other boy. Foresetti was still surveying him as he took the jar and placed it on the shelf nearby. The unasked question seemed to burn from his gaze, but E’kuun had the feeling he was the quieter sort; the kind that don’t push the subject if the other person didn’t answer. Foresetti hadn’t directly asked, after all.

“How long have I been here?” the kitten asked after a few more gulps of tea. It really was making him feel better.

E’kuun’s intuition about Foresetti seemed to be right: he didn’t push the subject.

“About two days. We had Professor Marence from the College come down to see if you were recovering. She’s their healing specialist up there,” Foresetti explained. “She also said _that_ was done long before the uh, spell,” he added somewhat nervously, gesturing at E’kuun’s left eye.

E’kuun grunted in reply before taking another sip, mostly to keep from having to talk.

Two days. He had been unconscious for two days. He had wondered how long he had been out as a prisoner. It had only seemed like the next day, but it could have been longer. He had no idea; he hadn’t kept a journal or calendar in Dunstad.

“You hungry?” Foresetti asked, almost sounding timid, as if interrupting E’kuun’s thoughts was rude of him. “You haven’t eaten in two days at least,” he added.

Once it was asked, the question had awakened the hunger rumbling in E’kuun’s stomach. For some reason, the hunger churning in his belly just hadn’t registered. Maybe it had been a combination of waking up so groggy and being in so much pain. His mind was so busy trying to figure out what had happened and how he had arrived in Winterhold. He did feel the hunger, but his appetite hadn’t been apparent until Foresetti brought it up.

“Y-yeah,” E’kuun said, glancing at the Nord boy, “I guess I am.”

Foresetti stood up from the wooden chair next to the bed and walked over towards the table on the other side of the room, returning with a wooden bowl full of that fishy smelling stew. E’kuun had the impression that Foresetti had been eating it before he woke up.

“It’s nothing special, just some vegetables and salmon. We don’t really get a lot of game out here,” he added apologetically.

E’kuun didn’t care. All he knew was that he was hungry. It could have been burnt skeever and he would have eaten it. Granted, he had had burnt skeever before. He accepted the offered bowl and spoon from Foresetti and began eating the stew. Seafood wasn’t something E’kuun ever had too often, but he’d take it over starving. It wasn’t particularly good, but that mattered very little.

Foresetti watched him as he ate and grinned a little at his expression.

“My uncle made it,” he explained. “I know it isn’t great but we can only do so much with watery meade and salmon.”

E’kuun shrugged by way of reply; too busy shovelling the bits of fish and vegetables into his mouth. He was so hungry that he even drank the rest of the broth in spite of the too-salty flavour. Luckily enough there was still tea with which to wash it down.

An hour or so later the door opened and a much older Nord man entered the house, bringing with him a chilly gust that blew through the warm room. It was gone as quickly as it had come once the door shut behind him, but E’kuun still felt the chill creep through his fur. It made him shiver – he was still without a shirt. The man stood in front of the door, brushing all the snow off of his cloak. While he was shorter than most Nord men E’kuun had encountered, he at first seemed much larger due to the bulk of the heavy cloak and furs.

“Hey Alsf,” Foresetti said as the man began removing layer after layer. “Any luck?”

“’Fraid not. Whatever got a hold of Kraldar’s cow has probably slunk off towards the ice. Bagged a hare, though.” he mumbled, briefly gesturing with the carcass before turning to see E’kuun. He surveyed the Khajiit for a moment, making E’kuun suddenly feel self-conscious. He was sitting on this old Nord’s bed without a shirt on. Getting fur on the sheets.

“Ah, you’re awake.” His tone was not disapproving, but it was oddly stern with a mixture of amusement.

“He just woke up a couple hours ago,” Foresetti said as Alsf moved towards the fireplace.

E’kuun gave a solemn nod and unconsciously crossed his arms over his chest. The chill wasn’t merely from the snowy wind outside, but also the old man’s gaze. He eyed the Khajiit momentarily as he tied the hare to a rack that hung from a wooden beam just above the mantle. E’kuun didn’t like being scrutinised by anyone, let alone a Nord whose home he found himself occupying. He wasn’t entirely sure whether or not the old Nord would tolerate him now he was awake. Thoughts raced through E’kuun’s head – would this old man kick him out now he was awake? Was it only because of the younger, kind Foresetti that he was allowed in this bed?

The Nord named Alsf was an old man, not much taller than his nephew. He was hunched over slightly, but there was a venerable gleam to his eye that he cast towards E’kuun. The hunting bow and quiver full of arrows did a lot to assuage the idea that this was just an ordinary old man. He had gone out hunting in the snow at his age, apparently searching for something capable of taking a cow.

“So,” Alsfgrund said, grabbing a chair from the table. He sat down with a sigh and then looked to his Khajiit guest, the gleam strong in his eyes. “Are the Thalmor on their way to hunt you down?”

“What?” E’kuun asked.

Lying had always come naturally to him. Feeling as vulnerable as he was, E’kuun could still pick up on the dry wit on display. Had he been serious, E’kuun might have faltered – at least a little. But he managed to feign a convincing bemusement.

The old Nord gestured up to the mantle of the fireplace, where an idol sat. It was the same shape as the amulet the Talos worshipper on the cart had worn. A stylised hammer crossed with a sword.

“We here in Winterhold still hold to the traditions,” Alsf said, “Talos is _our_ god. No elves are gonna stop us worshipping him. That is, unless they send their inquisition here looking for _you_.”

That was almost certainly an accusation. The grin on the old man’s face was one of triumph and assuredness, rather than outright amusement. E’kuun looked to Foresetti, actually confused. The Khajiit boy knew how to play his cards. The confusion that he felt from Alsf figuring out what he had escaped from fuelled the false expression of bewildered concern.

“Alsf…” Foresetti tried, but the old Nord persisted.

“Your hands were bound. You had a big scar on your back. Looked like it was from a lightning bolt. The Thalmor like their lightning magic. Saw plenty of it during the war. It isn’t hard putting two’n’two together, cat,” he finished with a tone that suggested there would be no arguing; that he had it figured out. Worse than that was his use of _cat_.

E’kuun glared at the old man, a story about trying to steal from an Imperial encampment because he was so hungry was quickly forming in his mind; they had battlemages and could have chased him to the coast. But Foresetti cut in almost immediately.

“E’kuun barely survived _what_ _ever_ happened to him, Alsf!” he said in affronted tones. “And if he _was_ running from the Thalmor, then he’s an ally to us faithful to Talos, even if he isn’t himself. An enemy of those Altmer are a friend to us, right? That inquisitor that arrived at the College is only here for the College, not us. No one came looking in the houses, and he didn’t have any sort of guards with him.”

The Nord boy had eyes only for his uncle, and his expression was surprisingly fierce. So much so that Alsf’s smugness all but vanished, replaced with a softened expression. He turned to E’kuun, not with an apology, but with an outright question.

“We were wondering why your hands were bound when we found you,” he said with a sigh, as if it made up for his rudeness. It didn’t. Even if he was right…

“It isn’t really any of your business,” E’kuun replied quietly, his voice soft, still glaring at the old man.

He expected Alsfgrund to get angry, to say that he had offered him his home for two long days of recovery and that he was crossing a line with that. He was ready to be kicked out and to get away. As nice as Foresetti was, he doubted he could be around Alsf for very long without saying something far ruder. The old man eyed the young kitten for a time, and, between them, Foresetti seemed tense. Alsf’s eyes bored into E’kuun’s, looking at him hard. It wasn’t a threatening stare-down, but something much more thoughtful. E’kuun didn’t falter, and stared back. The Khajiit kitten expected something – some kind of anger, but not the response he got. A shrug.

“Well,” Alsf said with a pause, “You’re right. It isn’t my business. You can stay here until you’re well enough to travel.”

E’kuun stared at the old man, actually shocked. Alsf stood up and made his way downstairs, and E’kuun turned his shocked expression to Foresetti.

“Don’t worry about it,” Foresetti said softly. “Alsf fought in the Great War. He’s a bit paranoid about the Thalmor and all of the anti-Talos talk. Some Altmer arrived the day after we brought you here. Alsf was in the Jarl’s longhouse talking with the steward when the inquisitor came in, and he’s been on edge ever since.”

“Oh,” E’kuun said simply, frowning slightly.

“He went up to the College and hasn’t come back yet, as far as I know,” Foresetti added.

One unescorted inquisitor didn’t seem like much. E’kuun had his doubts that the one that had imprisoned him and blown him off the cliff would come to search Winterhold without an entourage of guards _and_ that big plate-armoured Altmer woman. If he even survived the rest of that battle. Really, he’d expect the Thalmor to search the coast below the cliff, if anything.

E’kuun closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the wall. The aches from the bruises and the injuries were dull now thanks to the medicine. He guessed that the food and tea helped some, too. Without the headache clogging up his mind, though, he felt as if he could really suss out everything that had happened…

“ _Were_ you running from the Thalmor?” Foresetti asked quietly. He seemed genuinely concerned.

E’kuun had never taken so well with someone as quickly as he did with Foresetti. Maybe it was because he had kept him from dying, but there was something about him that he liked. The Nord boy was quiet in a way – full of questions, yes, but he almost seemed as if he was afraid of being annoying with how he asked them. E’kuun rarely met anyone that talked to him the way he was. Like they were equals. Like he was worth someone’s time. Maybe that’s why the lie took a while to come out.

E’kuun shook his head. “No…”

But how to explain his bound paws..?

“I was… arrested for stealing food,” he said slowly, looking away. Neither men nor mer could really grasp feline expressions when they were faked, and the simple drooping of his ears seemed to have sold his story.

“Where?” Foresetti asked incredulously.

“Stonehills.”

It was the closest town to Dunstad Grove; a grain of truth. Of a sort.

“That’s… in The Pale, right? It’s south of Dawnstar, near the mountain?”

“Something like that,” E’kuun said, shrugging slightly.

“Why did they arrest you for that? You’re not old enough for jail...” he said, albeit uncertainly

“Yeah I am,” E’kuun replied, managing his first genuine grin. “Or they don’t care. Repeat offender. I- I lived kind of… on the streets, you know? I’d sneak around the town from time to time for food.”

That wasn’t a complete lie. Though Stonehills barely had enough buildings to qualify for a city with streets; it was mining village.

“How did you end up in Winterhold, then?” he asked, concerned. “Wouldn’t they take you to Dawnstar or just put you in the prison at Stonehills?”

“They were gonna have me sit in the jail in Dawnstar, and eventually send me to the orphanage there,” E’kuun explained.

“…So how did you end up getting a spell in your back?”

“W-well. I did a runner. One of the guards was a mage, and she had this light wooden club and some kind of shock spell. Idea was, if you tried running away, she’d bolt you, you’d get stunned, and she'd whack you. Instead she over did it, and well…” he trailed off, leaving the implication aloft in the air for Foresetti to figure out. Coming to the conclusion himself would help make the story have strength, he felt.

“I went flying and tumbled down the mountainside, right into the Sea of Ghosts. I must’ve drifted to Winterhold on the currents…”

With how Foresetti was staring, E’kuun feared that he had gone too far by explaining how he wound up on the beach. But after a moment filled with an incredulous state, he seemed to buy it.

“I think the fall hurt more than the shock,” he said softly, cutting across the Nord boy’s thoughts.

Before he could take it back, Foresetti gave him a curious expression.

“No, I think it was stronger than you think,” he said slowly. “Professor Marence and I had to use a strong healing spell. I needed a channeller and all, too. And then I put the poultice on for good measure. It was pretty bad,” he added in a softer voice.

“A channeller?”

“I’ve got a rod for using magic, but it’s cheap,” he explained, gesturing to a crudely carved piece of driftwood on the mantle of the fireplace that E’kuun had taken for a walking stick before.

“Mm… I don’t really remember feeling the shock,” E’kuun invented.

“It might have knocked you out… who knows?” Foresetti offered sympathetically.

“Yeah. …Hey,” E’kuun began, but faltered.

It wasn’t something he could explain easily, but asking more from the kind Nord boy was difficult. It felt rude somehow to request anything of him after he had done so much. Foresetti looked to E’kuun inquisitively, so he pressed on.

“Can… can you- do you have any clothes I can wear? Other than the trousers, I mean. I- I don’t really like just… my fur,” he muttered awkwardly.

“Oh, sure,” he said, standing up and walking over to a wardrobe near the bed. “Those are actually some of my old pants,” he said as he perused the wardrobe. “I don’t think these fit me anymore,” he said slowly as he produced a long-sleeved, light red shirt and an accompanying pocketed vest. “You can just wear the shirt.”

E’kuun moved to stand up, but his body protested. An ache wracked through him. His legs felt weak and incredibly sore from both disuse and the injuries. Had it not been for the medicine, he might not have been able to stand at all. But, after a bit of trouble, he managed it. Holding onto the heavy bookshelf next to the bedside table to steady himself, he took a precarious stumble forward.

“E’kuun, what’re you doing?!” Foresetti exclaimed.

“Standing?” the kitten cried in return, startled by Foresetti’s sudden reprimand.

It was as if Foresetti had caught him getting ready to dive off the cliff again, his voice was so stern. Not only was it the first time he had addressed E’kuun by name, it was the first time he had addressed him in anything other than a gentle, quiet tone. Dropping the clothes onto the bed, he rushed over and helped E’kuun to sit back down.

“I can stand,” he protested as the bigger boy gently guided him back onto the bed. E’kuun flicked his stubby tail to the side for good measure so it wouldn’t be sat on. “How am I supposed to put them on sitting down?”

“It’s a shirt,” Foresetti said simply, offering it out to him. “You put it on over your head. Arms go through these holes. You don’t need to be standing.”

E’kuun took the shirt from him with a small growl. He hadn’t quite expected Foresetti to speak with such cheek, and, privately, he found it amusing. Enough so that he wasn’t irritated by the mollycoddling. Though he did fight to keep the smirk off his face.

“I didn’t _need_ to stand, I _wanted_ to,” E’kuun explained exasperated as he pulled the shirt over his head. “My legs are so weak,” he added quickly, realising he had been rude.

Foresetti opened his mouth, as if about to say something, but closed it.

“You’re not thinking about leaving already?” he asked finally.

“I- well, I probably should…” E’kuun mumbled almost inaudibly.

While Foresetti’s uncle had said that E’kuun was welcome to stay until he was better, he really didn’t want to push it and stay much longer. He hadn’t even had any time to think things over yet.

“You can barely stand,” Foresetti pointed out.

“I- I know,” E’kuun muttered. “I think I need to sort of- c-could you let me alone for a little?” E’kuun finally managed to ask, not quite meeting Foresetti’s eyes.

“Yeah, sure. I can go talk to Alsf about how the hunt went. I might go to bed, actually, unless you need anything?”

E’kuun shook his head. He was surprised; Foresetti didn’t seem offended or upset in the slightest.

“We’re just downstairs, so, just call out. And uh, we’ll hear it if you try and leave. The boards creek.”

Again, E’kuun was surprised. Foresetti gave him another grin and made his way downstairs.

It was silent. Night had already begun to fall outside by Alsfgrund’s return and the fire had begun to dwindle slightly, darkening the room. The heavy frosted glass bordering the thatched roof and wooden walls was blackened. Too opaque for any starlight to seep in, they drew E’kuun’s eyes as they grew darker and darker with snow.

He had been lost in thought for some time now. Not really thinking clearly or coherently; more in a daze of sorts. Focusing was difficult, and it was with dull, irritable dread that a mild pang in his head returned, offering constant protest. As were the memories that his brain kept forcing him to dwell on.

He didn’t know who had survived that night other than him. And the whole thing had been entirely his fault. E’kuun’s heart sank with utter despair and dread whenever that night resurfaced in his mind. And it had done over and over, ever since Foresetti went to bed hours before.

E’kuun had never had a proper home. Not really. He had moved around so much, even when he was a much younger kitten. No place had ever felt like a home; just places to spend the dark hours. Restless, anxious spells of drifting in and out of troubled sleep. Always worrying about looming threats around him. An orphanage, the decrepit, filthy warrens, the streets. They had never been places of comfort or solace. Always interludes between stress and work. Never safe, calm places.

Dunstad Grove was the first place he had ever felt remotely safe. A village around an old fort, it had been remote, secluded in the Pale as it was. Dunpar Wall had always been the more important settlement in the area, and the few soldiers the jarl could spare wound up there to guard the passes into Winterhold. With less than a token of the jarl’s men to patrol the village, the sellswords led by Adras were the main authority there. No one cared about Dunstad Grove. And then those guards had just allowed the Thalmor in. Let them kill everyone in the fort. They weren’t members of a bandit clan; Adras’ men were a proper group of sellswords. They had been, anyway. They were wiped out. Gone. _He_ had ruined everything. And no one would care. Not about the sellswords that offended the Aldmeri Dominion. Not about his kind Argonian friend. The Orc that had shown him how to fight and aim properly with a bow. Nor the brave Dunmer man who had taught him so much more.

And no one would ever care about him. If the Thalmor caught up with him again, it was all over. Absolutely no one in the province would give a skeever’s fart for what would happen to him, a stranger in his own land of birth.

E’kuun felt a burning in his eyes. Blinking, he realised that he had been staring at the window, not even seeing it. Gathering the fur blanket up to his chest, the Khajiit boy huddled inwardly, squeezing the furry mass to himself, eyes shut tight. A pain welled up inside of him. Different from the migraine and very unlike the injury on his back. It wracked through him as he recalled everyone he had let down. Every face he knew; every name and every friend. Realising that he would never be able to see them again. Never return to the secluded, snowy fort with pockets full of ill-gotten gems or coins from Stonehills or Dawnstar. He wouldn’t again see pride in anyone’s eyes when he drew a particularly good catch.

Awash with guilt and shame, E’kuun’s body tensed. His breathing came in rapid, staggering sobs, and his claws dug into the furred blanket.

What could he possibly do now?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of Bethesda Softworks and Zenimax Studios, except for certain original characters, places, and concepts which belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this or any other archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of the readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
> 
> Content Warning: This work of fan fiction contains scenes of burglary and larceny by a fictional character(s) under the age of 18.  
> If you read beyond this disclaimer, it is your choice to do so, and it is implicit that you did so having full knowledge of the nature of the content within this document and made the choice to do so without any encouragement, and agree to take full responsibility and to hold nobody but yourself responsible for any consequences that arise. If you don't agree to these conditions, cease reading this document now.
> 
> Notes: This is the most recent chapter at present, so it's all up to date! It'll be some time before the fourth chapter comes out, but I will be diligently working on it. C:  
> The latter parts of this chapter are very newly written and haven't been proof read as much as the previous two, so it might be a little more "raw" than the rest of the chapter. I'll definitely be editing and fixing it over time.
> 
> Also! This chapter contains 'illustrations!' They're just screenshots from Skyrim put through a photo filter. I hope you like them x)  
> With my current plans I'll likely have at least one illustration every chapter.

Chapter Three

_Paj Shabar Owaz_

The snowstorm had finally calmed down and the night sky was visible in all its splendour. An uncountable myriad of stars shone through an ethereal curtain of shimmering violet, casting the ruined city of Winterhold in a deep, purplish light that somehow darkened the shadows. The air was clear, and a cold wind billowed along the cliffs of the once prosperous, ancient city. It all suited him just fine.

Wrapped as he was in an overlarge fur cloak, the Khajiit boy slinked through the streets, passing abandoned houses and disused shops before reaching his destination. The only building in the entire dilapidated city with any kind of buzz, the Frozen Hearth Inn was ablaze with patronage. As a Nord woman walked by, E’kuun knelt behind a pile of crates and barrels between two buildings, stalking low to the ground.

He hadn’t seen any guards walking by. Most of the ‘city’ and surrounding village was either at the inn for a night’s drink or in their homes sleeping. The streets were empty only for the Nord woman crossing in front of him. If he was going to act, now was the time, but…

“Birna!” A friendly voice called from around the corner.

Hissing to himself, E’kuun slid back behind the crates as a Wood Elf approached the woman. How had he missed this guy?! His footsteps must have been muffled by the snow!

"Enthir, hello."

“Have you had any luck getting the merchandise I asked for?"

"Not yet,” Birna replied, somewhat sternly. “You know the stuff you ask for isn’t easy to find, right?”

This is _exactly_ what he needed his mark to do! Have an outdoor chat!

"Of course,” the Wood Elf replied amicably. “But you did assure me that you could bring them in.”

"I did. I will,” Birna sighed. “It's tougher than I thought it would be; but I won’t renege, you have my word. It’s just taking some time."

 _This could take a while,_ E’kuun thought, rolling his eyes. Resisting the urge to sigh with irritation, the Khajiit boy shuffled lower, getting comfortable by digging a knee into the snowy earth.

“Yes, very well,” the Wood Elf replied exasperatedly, evidently disappointed. “I just thought I’d check in. It’s been a week longer than I expected.”

“I know,” Birna sighed. “Look, Enthir, I have to drag Ranmir back home before he drinks all my gold away.”

“All right, all right. Good luck with that,” Enthir said, not unsympathetically.

 _Thank fuck_ , E'kuun thought. He had worried that they were about to have a business meeting in the middle of the cold street!

Just barely sticking his head around a nearby barrel, E’kuun watched the Elf as he walked up the street, heading towards the enormous Mage's College at the far end of the road. E’kuun didn’t need to know where Enthir was going to know he was a mage; he could tell by the ostentatious robes. But it didn’t matter. He was gone, and his mark was nearing her destination!

Moving quickly and quietly with natural grace, E’kuun slinked from between the two buildings and stalked closer to the steps of the Frozen Hearth Inn. It was noisy – noisier to him than it would be to her, but loud enough to cover whatever sounds he himself made. He watched the Nord woman, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And, as she took a step up, he rose up. E’kuun’s paw delicately and deftly pried apart the loose leather clasp hanging over her belt bag. And, walking in step with her, silent as a ghost, the Khajiit kitten dextrously extricated the small metallic key just as Birna reached for the door. Her other hand swung backward, brushing over the spot mere inches from where his paw had been a second ago! Thankful for his luck, E’kuun stepped sideways so that he joined Birna under inn’s awning, safely within its shadow, and slipped behind the open door as she stepped in. Warm firelight flooded the purple gloom of the aurora, temporarily lightening up the snowy street outside. The cacophony from within spilled loudly from the open door like an overfilled bottle. But the gloom and quiet returned as swiftly as it had been interrupted. Birna had gone inside.

Skulking away from the noisy inn and shrouded in the aurora’s violaceous murk, E’kuun made his way back across the street and behind the old decrepit buildings. Gripping the key in his paw, the kitten smirked at his small victory. It was the first he had had in several long days. Though finally being able to walk without pain should qualify, it really didn’t strike him as one. It wasn’t like being bed-ridden was status-quo for him.

It was with a quiet sigh that he slid up to the shop, key in paw, undid the lock, and let himself in. Softly closing and then locking the door behind him, E’kuun glanced around and pocketed the key.

The shop was lit by a pleasant, but dwindling fire which he scooted towards almost unconsciously. A ladder sat to the left, bridging the upper and lower floors. He didn’t need to go upstairs, however; the store was right in front of him. It was empty, as he knew it would be. He had come in here with Foresetti two days ago, hobbling along with a makeshift crutch, as the young Nord purchased some essentials for their cabin in the village south of the ‘city.’ E’kuun had stayed quiet, minding his own business. It just so happened that his business was scouting the place out – or at least the bottom floor. It had become second nature to him to do it in every store he entered, just in case. He knew Foresetti, or at the very least, his uncle, would put two and two together once they awoke and found that he had left. And once the news of the theft here reached them… _No._ It didn’t matter. He was about to leave this frozen pile of bricks. And he didn’t need to look back.

What he also learned was that the owner’s brother was a drunk, and she often had to go and fetch him from the inn’s tavern every night to stop him from blowing her earnings. The plan sort of fell into place, E’kuun mused as he strolled towards the counter. A pair of shelves sat behind it, displaying Birna’s merchandise, and a cheap, glass-top case stood against the wall to its left.

If he was going to leave, he’d need supplies, he had reasoned. And this ‘Birna’s Oddments’ shop seemed the best place for them. He wasn’t entirely sure what an ‘oddment’ even was, but the shop was sure full of miscellaneous rubbish. Frowning, he picked up a strange object resembling a reptilian claw. It was a hideous salmon colour and felt like it weighed about half a pound. Figuring it for a glorified paper weight of some Nordic ilk, he replaced it back on the shelf and turned around to look at the shelves hidden beneath the counter. But, just as his eyes set on a hefty money purse, he heard voices outside.

"We need money, Ranmir, and you’re drinking away every Septim I earn and not making any yourself!"

It was Birna. She hadn’t taken nearly as long as he thought she would have!

“Shite…” E’kuun hissed.

Thinking quickly, he dashed to the counter and knelt down, lowering both his ears and stubby tail for good measure, completely forgetting the fur cloak already covering it.

“Damn it, the door’s locked and- where’s my key?!” Birna was shouting.

“How should I know!?” A male voice slurred, just as angrily.

“Give me yours! Come on! It’s freezing out here and I didn’t bother getting my cloak.”

 _The key!_ E’kuun thought desperately.

The doorknob was rattling and he could hear the metallic clicking as Birna started to unlock the door. Her key was in his pocket! If she came in here and couldn’t find it..! Scrambling, E’kuun fished it out from his pocket and haphazardly placed it upon the counter just as the door opened! It opened to the right, he remembered. He was on the right. She didn’t see his paw… She couldn’t.

“Ugh, there it is,” Birna was saying, and E’kuun heard footsteps coming closer to the counter.

He held his breath, drawing himself against the counter, trying to become as small as possible.

“Right where ya left it,” Ranmir heckled drunkenly.

“Damn it, Ranmir! Don’t start with me! I sold that old carved tusk to that traveller from Bruma _yesterday_ and now where's the money gone?!”

“Right to Frozen Hearth!” Ranmir shouted back, although his admittance was completely at odds with his anger.

 _Ysmir’s beard_ _._ What had he gotten himself into _?_

There was silence for a moment. Whatever was going on between the siblings, E’kuun couldn’t see it.

“How much money did you spend today?” Birna asked exhaustedly. She still sounded very close; she had to be leaning against the counter. “Is there anything left?"

"What do you want me ta do? Join the College and ‘conjure’ some gold?"

“I want you to get off your drunken arse and stop spending every Septim I earn on mead! Don't just walk away from me! Where do you think you're going?”

E’kuun heard the door open again, heard the wind from outside and felt the chill sweep the room.

“Back to the Inn to finish the reserve! I paid for the whole bottle, didn’t I?!” Ranmir said snidely. “Where else could I even go in this shit-hole of a town?!”

“And what, you think that'll solve all your problems?”

“Probably not, but it's worth a try!” And he slammed the door.

“Ugh!” Birna grunted angrily.

Still secluded behind the counter, E’kuun let out a breath of relief after hearing Birna stomp up the ladder to the second floor. He had held his breath almost throughout the entire argument. He knew he couldn’t move yet, but at the same time, he was curled up in a little ball, his knees pressed against the hard stone floor, and he had tensed up during the spat. Listening hard for signs of activity from Birna above him, E’kuun did his best to remain still. From what he heard, it sounded like she was opening some kind of metal box and closing it. And, in straining his ears, he thought he heard a metallic clicking sound. Probably a lockbox of some kind. It made sense… but he needed her to go the fuck to bed!

 _Son of a bitch_ , he thought, eyes wandering up towards the ceiling. He heard footsteps as Birna walked around the flat above the store. It sounded like she was heading towards the opposite end of the flat – where the ladder was. If she decided to come back downstairs and walk around the store, there would be no way for him to get out of this.

“Damn it…” he heard her mutter.

E'kuun waited, unconscious of his held breath. The upstairs flat was silent for a long while, and the quiet sounds of the crackling, dwindling fire filled the empty shop. His ears perked at the sudden sound of creaking wood, and it took E'kuun a moment to realise that it had come from just above him. It didn’t sound like she was descending the ladder. But he had to be cautious. He waited. The silence stretched on, pressing onto him. A silence he had experienced before, but one that never failed to put his nerves on edge. Digging his claws into his leg in anticipation, he took a deep, but muted breath and glanced up at the wooden ceiling. Birna had to have finally gone to bed by now.

Slowly, cautiously, E'kuun leaned forward. Grasping the counter’s shelf for support, he eased his head out just enough to glance at the shop. It _was_ empty. Birna was upstairs in bed or sitting and stewing. It was time for him to act. Softly as he could, he rose up from behind the counter. It took him a moment to regain himself – to regain what he was about to do.

Now, what would he need? What did she have?

The coin purse! He had been so wound up with hiding during the argument that he forgot it was there. Bending forward to grab it from under the counter, he noticed a dagger as well. It was probably there for defence. If someone tried to hold up the store, Birna could quickly grab it. It was something E'kuun had seen before; the barman at Dunstad had kept a small mace under the counter in the Stumbling Sabrecat.

He lifted the dagger from the shelf, appreciating its weight. It didn’t seem to be anything special; just a simple dagger for self defence. In fact, looking at its worn edges, he realised that it was practically dull, and was probably used like the rest of the rubbish in the store. The scabbard was old; its leather was pealing, its attachment ring was rusted, and it smelled a little musty.  
_Still, a weapon was a weapon_ , E’kuun thought as he fastened the ring around his belt. He didn’t want to be completely unarmed if he was going to travel alone.

Tying the coin purse to his belt, E'kuun turned around to look at the shelves again. There had only been a moment to look before Birna and her brother had come home, and his attention had been focused on the weird salmon coloured paperweight. It seemed that ‘oddments’ were either old food and out of date potions, or the miscellaneous junk strewn about. Some seashells from the shingled beaches, little animal totems, books, even…  
_Oh! Lockpicks!_

E'kuun swept up the quill-thin iron strips. It was a nice handful; they would last him a while unless he ran into a particularly secure place. The knife he had nicked would work well for turning locks, at least until he found a suitable replacement. E'kuun stowed them into the pocket of the inside of his vest. It always struck him as somewhat funny when stores sold lockpicks. He had bagged a few in both Dawnstar and Stonehills’ general stores more than once. It seemed like, no matter where you go, there were always people accidentally locking themselves out of their homes. He smirked up at the ceiling.

A few minutes later, his pockets considerably fuller than when he had entered, E'kuun was leaning ever so gently against the door to muffle the sound, and his paw pressing onto the doorknob, ready to open it. The bolt was almost soundless as it unlatched, and the door parted just slightly. He peered through the sliver out at Winterhold’s cold high street. It was empty – or so it seemed from his tiny point of perspective. In cracking the door open a little more, E'kuun was able to see that clouds had rolled in, and snow had begun to gently fall. The purple hue was all but gone, replaced instead with a faint shadow that muffled the starlight.

_That’d suit me just fine._

As quietly as he could, E'kuun pried the door open just enough for him and his overlarge fur cloak to slink through. Once outside, he held the door firmly and, very gently, he pressed it closed, holding the latch all the while. With a muted clink, he closed the door. And, without delay, the Khajiit boy slinked off through the ruined backstreet of the ‘city.’

He was glad to see the back end of the place.

…

“Urghn…” E'kuun groaned aloud.

His voice echoed around in the icy ravine, causing his ears to perk and swivel this way and that on their own accord.His head gave a sudden, unexpected throb, and the echo made it all the worse. The headache had returned before he had even left Foresetti’s cabin, but it was hurting even more now from the sun-drenched ice and snow. His train of thought didn’t help it either. It was such a bright day that the frosty features of Winterhold were almost glowing. Literally in the ice’s case. As much as he would hate to be travelling Winterhold in a snow storm, E'kuun cursed the clear day for the sun’s brightness and found himself welcoming the cloudier conditions of the previous night. His eyes, good and bad, strained constantly. The daylight’s effervescent play on the clear ice made his head pound and caused an ache behind his eyes. He might have found it pretty, how it glistened and reflected light depending on the angle, changing every few steps, if it weren’t for the migraine.

The red potion in his paw had a different kind of glow to it. Warmer, yet less bright. Welcoming. Maybe that was just because he knew the phial contained an analgesic, but the colour was soothing somehow. He held it up towards the sky once or twice – not in the direct sunlight, but high enough for the light to strike the bottle and fill the red liquid within. He only had a handful of these, and his head was hurting. The thought of conserving the potions fought with his current throbbing head. The prospect of danger on the road and conserving the medicinal potion for emergencies battled with the dizzying, pounding pain that made it hurt to even _turn his head_.

E'kuun came to his decision without really making it. The cork was unstoppered, dangling by a string around the phial’s neck, and he downed half of the potion in just a few seconds. He was pleased when the potion wasn’t ice cold even though it had been in his bag. In fact, it was warmer than his water was, as if it had been sitting out in the sun for a time; neither too warm nor too cold. He had taken the stuff once or twice before he met Foresetti, but only now was he getting used to the flavour. It was an unusual taste, however; bitter, like ale, but with a hint of something sweet and flowery. Luckily, the flowery taste overpowered the latter. It was always a bonus when medicine wasn’t bitter.

After downing half of the medicine, E'kuun shut his eyes tightly, willing the bright sunlight to abate while the warmth of the potion expanded within him, taking a foothold. It only took a few moments for its effects to kick in. It was with a relieved sigh that the pounding, throbbing ache abated. It wasn’t gone fully, but the migraine had suddenly dulled, and the pain became less agonising. It was as if the pain was distant; unfelt in his core, but present only in a dim sense. He grunted in relief and decided to open his eyes. The brightness of the day barely affected him, even with the glistening ice and gleaming white snow.

With the pain abating, E'kuun decided to take a moment of rest. Sitting down on a nearby rock, he fished in his pockets, feeling around for a haphazardly folded paper. Though it had become all the more wrinkled, it was still legible. A detailed map of the nine holds, he had torn it from the bulletin board on his way out of Winterhold Village. It showed the major roadways, beginning from Windhelm to the South to The Pale to the west. But more than that, it also detailed paths towards the desolate coastline via icy ravines. These were probably outlined for fishermen, like Foresetti’s grandfather. But E'kuun was confident that he wouldn’t run into anyone this far out from the village. The coast just north of the city was where they had found him, so it stood to reason that was a primary fishing spot. The only settlements nearby were a tiny mining outpost called Whistling Mine to the south and Kastav, a fortified town to the west in the mountains. Beyond that there was nothing but ruins, old fanes and barrows, all of which he had less than zero interest in. The rest of the hold was barren ice and snow.

E’kuun traced his finger along the road from Winterhold and followed it down to the ice ravine he had entered. With a frown he followed its path towards the Sea of Ghosts – indicated by innumerable rough shapes meant to resemble the ice sheets gathered around rocky formations and islets. He didn’t really know exactly where the encampment was that he was trying to find. But it was somewhere around here, out in this part of the icefields. Standing up, he folded the map and slipped it back into his pocket.

As he finally left the ice-ravine and traipsed onto the Northeastern coastline, a burst of colour caught his eyes. Amidst the greys, whites, and faded blues, E'kuun saw a green bush, lush with red berries. Grinning, he made his way for them. Almost everyone living in the northernmost reaches of Skyrim were aware of the snowberry and how their properties aided in resisting the cold. The roads in Winterhold were abundant with the bushes, almost more than any other plant, and he had found quite a few already. E'kuun popped a few into his mouth, relishing their sweetness. It took several of them alone to build up a tolerance to the cold, but he knew, vaguely, that there were alchemical concoctions that could harness the natural hardiness of the berry. Seeing as they were effective even in their raw form, he had been pocketing a handful at every bush.

Turning around, the seaborne breeze hit E'kuun full in the face. An entire horizon of frozen water stretched out before him, broken up by ice, rocks, and islets. The water owed its greyish colour to the ice resting upon its surface, making it appear all the more frigid. Though it was less an ocean and more an icefield, the Sea of Ghosts was, as it had been from the cliff, eerie to look at. The name was apt, as the chunks that bobbed silently in the water were somewhat haunting. As was the silence. The rocks and ice far out at sea broke up most of the waves, making the coastline practically still in many places. It was quiet; a shingled beach without the constant ebb and flow of ocean waves. Even in spite of the wind, the only sound was the crunch of pebbles under E’kuun’s booted paws as he stepped towards the water.

The camp he was looking for was somewhere here in the Northeastern ice fields. Now that he was no longer in the ravine, E’kuun could clearly make out the form of Winterhold’s Magic College. It was such a large structure that he could see it plainly even from so far away. The first time they had come out here, Adras made it plain that the College was an important landmark for travelling in this corner of Skyrim. That being the case, E’kuun knew that he needed to go farther Southeast. Or so he hoped. Judging from the angle the College was at from where he stood, he was rather certain that it was to the Northwest. But travelling the icefields wasn’t safe. Not without a boat. The islets within the bay were far apart, and the slippery ice, always in motion, would make for precarious purchase. The ice, however, was congealed together enough to be walked upon. They had used a small boat when he had come out here with Adras, and the prospect of traversing the slippery ice while hoping that the smaller bits didn’t break was a daunting one.

Inwardly grateful for his natural grace, even in ill-fitting boots, E’kuun approached the bank and gingerly stretched a foot-paw out towards the closest sheet of ice. It was firm and solid, but bobbed slightly. It was close enough to the shoreline that he didn’t even need to get his boots wet. He withdrew his paw and considered his next move. There was always the risk of slipping and falling into the frozen water, which surely mean a cold death even in this unusual sunny weather. Just as carefully as he had before, E’kuun firmly put one paw onto the sheet and tested it, his back paw planted firmly on the dark shingles. Although his footing was grounded enough, the ice was slippery, making his stance less solid. But the ice held. It was heavy and solid enough for him to stand on, light as he was. Arms outstretched for balance, E'kuun took a second step forward and stood on the ice sheet, again thankful for his uncanny balance as it started to bob. It occurred to him, as he held his balance, just how much of a boon the still waters were. If there were waves coming in, there would have been no way to do this. That this sheet was partially grounded made it all the easier.

The nearest rocky islet was only a few metres away, and he would only need to cross a few more chunks. At least for this little island. More of a rocky spire than anything, it could hardly be considered an island. There wasn’t a good place to walk, let alone gain a foothold – the rock was damp and looked slippery from the frigid sea spray. And if he misstepped, or couldn’t hold on, he would surely tumble into the water. The camp he was looking for was set deeply within this eastern icefield, passed who knows how many metres of ice and craggy rocks and islets.

Daunting as it was, E'kuun took another very careful step forward, feeling the ice beneath him creak and move, solid and grounded as it was. Just as he did so, a very distant low rumbling made it to his ears. Glancing up towards the northwest, E'kuun saw a distant grey shroud encroaching on the horizon behind the College.

“…Fuck this,” he whispered with trepidation and turned around to take a step back towards the shingled beach. He’d do better to just follow the coastline for now.

…

Night had fallen and the cold was encroaching. Holding the heavy fur cloak tightly around him, E’kuun trudged through the deepening snow, hoping against hope that he was still heading southwest towards the mining outpost. The wind roared loudly in his ears, and he couldn’t help but to lower them against the chill. Even with his thick fur, the cloak, and his clothes, Winterhold’s blizzards were a serious threat.

He had headed south after deciding against finding the camp out in the Sea of Ghosts. Following the coastline for a time, E'kuun only sought higher ground when bitter, uninhibited winds began to sweep from the icefield. It was another warning, after the distant rumble, that he had to get out of the open and find some kind of shelter. But Winterhold was treacherous. Icy ravines and frozen fjords made up its higher coast. He was still being battered even as they swallowed the worst of the wind, and it was all he could do to hold onto his cloak.

It was stupid. He had been deceived by the clearer weather earlier in the day. Living in The Pale for so long, E’kuun had been used to clearer, but cold days, even in winter. But Winterhold itself was a different beast entirely, and he was gambling with his life out here. Mentally kicking himself, he was practically marching through the deep snow and regretting that he had decided to leave Foresetti. His cosy house. The hot fishy stews he would cook. The warm bed. He shivered. Just thinking about the nice insulated house Foresetti lived in made the icy winds all the worse.

Squeezing the cloak around himself again, the Khajiit boy stopped to try and take in his surroundings. The blizzard was so intense that he could barely see anything. The sky itself was covered in a dark, greyish tinge, and he couldn’t make out the beginning or the end of the ravine he was passing through. There were snowed cliffs and rocks on either side of him, but no inlets he felt could be safely sheltered in. It was all crags and ice.

All he could do was continue; just keep going and press onward. He had fur, he reminded himself. And boots. But, as he plodded on, he began to feel a bone chilling cold start to take hold of him. How many hours had he been walking in this blizzard? He truly didn’t know. Night had fallen – he could tell that, at least. But it had to have been quite a long time for the deeper, insulated layer of fur of his coat to start feeling chilly. It was worse on his face, having nothing to wrap over his mouth and no hood to wear over his head. Even his neck and cheeks were beginning to feel chilly, and they were probably his fluffiest places. This wasn’t good.

His breath had long since begun to sting his lungs, but now his breathing had become shallower. It was like breathing sharp spurs of iron - or that hard ice Adras had once told him about from the Northeast. Steel-frost, he thought it was called. Lowering his head against the billowing storm, E'kuun kept moving, squeezing his eyes tightly closed. If he didn’t get out soon and find that mine he had seen on his map earlier in the day, he would need to build a snow shelter.

It took him some time to realise that the ravine was significantly inclining. With the deep snow, all of his steps were exaggerated as if he were marching, but he noticed that his steps were becoming a little shallower. And, after several more minutes, the ravine’s icy walls began to recede. In no time at all E'kuun had stumbled onto a flat, snowy plain! He could actually see to his left and right! Not that it actually meant anything, but he was relieved regardless. All he could see through the snowblind was blankets of snow. Anything more than a few metres in front of him was vague and darkened. Still pressing onward in spite of himself, E’kuun again lowered his head and squinted his eyes against the flurry.

Even though he was out of the ravine, E'kuun still wasn’t out of danger. The wind was fiercer and the snow heavier without the walls around him. But he knew that so long as he kept going, he’d surely run directly into the foot of Mt. Anthor. He really hoped, anyway. For all he knew, he had turned around and was heading back towards the city. But no, that didn’t make sense; the ravines and fjords faced the northeast. If he was walking directly away from one, he had to be heading west at the very least.

Getting out of the ravine didn’t help him much, though. He was already pushing himself, dangerously so. The cold air practically burned as he walked, and the snow was heavier. He was tired, too. He would have to make a shelter and hold out during the rest of the night, and hope that the blizzard would blow itself out in the morning with the-!

His foot-paw caught on something hard, and E'kuun stumbled forward. Flailing for balance, his arms and cloak flapping in the air comically, he fell forward into the snow. Not happy with that, he found himself tumbling sideways, down an embankment! Memories of rolling down the mountainside flashed in his mind’s eye as he fell, and a genuine fear sparked life into him.

_Not back down in the ravines!_

No. Thankfully he only tumbled for a moment. And he had made enough distance from the cliffside that they were far behind him. E'kuun rolled over, coughing painfully and spat out a mouthful of flurry. Caught in his cloak, he had to fight with it in order to get back upright.

“Son of a horker,” he groaned.

And then he saw it. Half buried in the snow, icicles clinging to it, was an old ruin. It looked like a kind of shelter, but that wasn’t what caught his attention. It was the light he could see inside! There was a fire inside!

"Hello!?" he wheezed.

He was too cold to think - his normal instincts were buried under the blizzard's icy winds. This was life or death. Gone was any sense of his usual trepidation - of worry and caution. It struck him briefly as he stumbled half frozen towards the shelter. And just as quickly as it had occurred to him to be cautious and careful did he discard it behind him. IF he was stumbling onto some crazed murderer, it was either be killed by them or die in the snow. He instead kept going forward towards the gentle glow of firelight. The promise of warmth.

"H-hello?" he tried calling out again just outside the shelter's entrance.

There wasn't an answer, but that didn't stop him. Past the threshold and into the ruin, the wood fire smell was suddenly overpowering. The ice and cold outside had smothered his senses so much that he hadn't noticed it until he was right upon it. That, and it was downwind of him.

Beyond the entrance were two round halls, leading left and right. The right was snowed in, so he stumbled through the only ingress available. Warm orange light spilled out through a series of unobstructed window-holes that opened in the stonework. He was already feeling edges of warmth from inside as he winded his way around the ruin's hall. Glancing through one of the windows, he saw a blue-clad figure lying on the floor. What was more, there was a pungent, coppery smell in the air that made the Khajiit boy pause, his paw on the wall. Leaning forward, E'kuun peered around the next window and looked into the shelter's room. He didn't need to say anything this time. He knew the man was dead.

His nose wrinkled, E'kuun carefully walked towards the corpse. Only when passing the fire did he to allow his eyes to wander. It wasn't anything he hadn't seen before, but it was never a welcomed sight. Or smell. Luckily for him, the man had been killed recently. The blood on the floor was still a little tacky in spite of the cold weather, and the smell was stronger of blood, rather decomposition.

The man was a wizard, the Khajiit boy figured. He had been wearing a heavy set of expensive looking mage's robes laden with furs. Three arrows stuck out of his back, and he figured the man had been shot from behind. He winced at the thought of being struck twice after being knocked down. It was probably done to finish him off. It made his stomach tighten.

With mild trepidation, E'kuun nudged the man's thigh, figuring, if he had any life in him at all, he might stir. But nothing happened. He had to check, though. If he was going to stay in here during the blizzard, there was no way he'd keep the corpse in here with him. He'd have to move it. With a grunt, the exhausted Khajiit knelt down and grabbed the mage's body by the ankles.

"Sorry..." he moaned as he began to back himself out of the room.

He wasn't by any means the strongest, let alone well rested, but E'kuun eventually managed to drag the body out of the room and into the snow outside. He kept reminding himself that _this_ was the last hurdle of the night. That, after he got the corpse outside, he could finally lie down. He could rest. And he would survive. The frigid air after the relative warmth felt like a bludgeoning full-body blow. After dragging the body a few feet away from the shelter, he quickly stumbled back inside, back to the fire.

Exhausted, E'kuun collapsed right in front of the fire, as close to it as he could be without endangering his whiskers. He curled his legs up and tucking his paws under the cloak, panting from all the effort he had been through recently. The air was still cool even inside, right next to the fire, and it stung his breath. He lay there for some time, watching the fire dance in his face. It was so comforting, so warm. It wasn't just the warmth of the fire, but the amazing relief that was filling him up as surely as the fire chipped at the frost. _He had made it._

 _Next time don't go wandering through the hinterlands of the snowfields, you dumbass,_ he thought to himself sleepily.

He had to think about how disastrous it would have been if he had stayed on the coast and made his way to that shipwreck encampment. If he had fallen into the water, if the blizzard just froze him to death out in the ice, or if the bandit clan there didn't care about the Dunstad Sellswords being slaughtered. They might've killed him or tried selling him off to the Thalmor. No, in the end, this was the best idea. _He was alive._

...

After what could have been several minutes or several hours, E'kuun sat up, bleary-eyed. The rumbling wind outside had faded, at least somewhat, but it was still dark, and the fire was still going. It took him a few moments before he decided to get up and look around the shelter. Groaning, the khajiit boy stretched. Sleeping on a cold stone floor wasn't exactly the most comfortable.

It was clear that the mage had been mugged. A wooden table sat near the entrance to the room, and a knapsack and its contents lay strewn on and under it, but there wasn't any gold.

"Poor sod," E'kuun grunted as he poured through the mess.

There wasn't much to be found. Whoever killed the mage had picked him clean of valuables. All that remained was a mess kit and some bottles of meade which lay broken on the floor. One thing caught E'kuun's eye, however. A thick pocket-sized book with the emblazoned title, _The Herbalist's Guide To Skyrim_. His curiosity piqued, he opened the book and read.

_"Those avoiding this northern province due to claims of barbarism or concerns over climate are doing themselves a disservice; in fact, Skyrim has a wealth of materials that every Alchemist would do well to avail himself of. I have traveled extensively throughout this land, and here are but a few of my findings."_

Following the introduction was a table that organised its contents by their family: plants from flower to fungi, to living creatures such as insects and even animal parts. It was more than an herbalist's guide, it seemed.

Grinning at this find, E'kuun placed the book into the knapsack - he would definitely be taking both with him - and looked about the room. He had neglected to properly look it over before he collapsed from exhaustion. The knapsack and broken bottles he had only dimly registered, but he had completely missed the field lab the mage had set up.

Against the far wall - the opposite side of the shelter's entrance - were two storage barrels. Atop one was a small engraved board with two glass phials sitting upon it.One phial was secured over tiny little furnace, while the other was larger and rounder, with a spout that angled down into a collecting bowl carved into the wooden board. Both phials were connected via a thin wiry tube between them.

Grinning, E'kuun leaned close and examined the phials. He didn't remember what they were called, but he had seen very similar examples in the study of Fort Dunstad. Adras had explained how they worked: the heated phial on the left would purify liquids into a steam which would connect into the phial with the spout. The mage must have been wealthy to have a portable alchemist's lab.

That wasn't all. A palm-sized clay bowl with a small club-shaped piece of wood sitting in it sat on the other barrel. He knew the names of these tools, at least: a mortar and pestle. He had used them in to grind up peppercorns for cooking before. Next to the tools was a small belt pouch with a sheathed knife attached to it. E'kuun undid the pouch's button and dumped the contents. It was full of snowberries, blue flowers, and other herbs that grew out in the cold. Evidently the mage had been foraging in the area.

After carefully replacing the herbs, he took to examining the knife. The handle was made of a fine, glossed wood, as was its sheath. At first, E'kuun thought that the dagger was lodged into the sheath - it took a bit more effort than he was expecting to pull it out. But once he did, he saw why. The blade was beautiful and very well taken care of. It was of a pristine ivory colour with a metallic gloss, something E'kuun had only seen once before in the hands of the Thalmor. He had no idea what the metal was called, but the dagger was clearly for cutting and refining ingredients. Its blade was embossed with an intricate swirling vine design, which bared a legend inlaid into the metal on one side:

_Borvir, may you find success at the College - Da_

The Khajiit boy frowned after reading the words. For some reason they had caused a pit to form in his stomach.He now had a name for the dead man he had dragged outside. Borvir. And his father encouraged him to become a mage. He was an alchemist, too.

Turning around, E'kuun looked around the shelter. The table, the fireplace, the carefully rolled up bedroll. It had all been his. The man he was stealing from. The _corpse_ he was stealing from. The stuff the dead guy had left behind.

"Borvir," E'kuun muttered, looking at the ivory blade before sheathing it.

It didn't really matter. But it did.

...

E'kuun lay curled up in the bedroll, up against the fire again. The map he had taken from Winterhold was splayed out on the stone floor in front of him. After tonight, he would keep heading south, past Windhelm and into Mistspring Caldera.

 _It_ has _to be warm there_ , he mused, taking a bite of bread.

He traced a finger from the Whistling Mine Outpost, which he assumed was at least adjacent to his shelter, to the Mistsprings. But he'd have to stop somewhere on the way. Eastmarch was miles and miles south of him. Then he saw it. A trading outpost on the eastern side of the White River, near Dunmeth Pass. Then there was Mistwatch Keep, which stood just south of the caldera. That was a name Adras had used before. If he remembered right, they had a good operation going there...


End file.
